


Highland Christmas

by AtoTheBean



Series: The Highland Bonds [1]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: All The Tropes, And February, Christmas, Community: MI6 Cafe | mi6_cafe, Hallmark Movie Fic Challenge, Inspired by Hallmark Christmas Movies, M/M, Post-SPECTRE, Skyfall References, Tropes, in January
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-02-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:40:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 29,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22064905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtoTheBean/pseuds/AtoTheBean
Summary: Since all Hallmark movies have the same plot, do we really need a summary?I'm told yes... yes we do.James Bond thought he’d said goodbye to Skyfall Lodge for the last time, dedicating his life to a fast-paced career in international espionage, glamorous destinations, and meaningless affairs.  Q thought a quiet Christmas with the cats was just what he wanted.  But when a letter addressed to both of them sends them north, they discover that while Skyfall Lodge may be a ruin, life around it is vibrant and full of promise.  And it's under threat.  Good whisky, delicious baked goods, and mistletoe-wielding innkeepers have them both reexamining things they thought they knew about themselves and each other, their pasts and their future, and the meaning of a Highland Christmas.
Relationships: James Bond & Q, James Bond/Q
Series: The Highland Bonds [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1845430
Comments: 341
Kudos: 536
Collections: MI6 Cafe Collections, Mi6 Cafe Prompt Fills





	1. The Letter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Boffin1710](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Boffin1710/gifts).



> I did a ton of research for this fic, which is frankly hysterical. I don't have cable, but I watched 5 different Made For Netflix Christmas Movies, which I have on good authority are reasonably close to Hallmark Christmas films. I also read several articles on Hallmark tropes, and have added as many as I could fit in (along with some tried-and-true fanfic tropes). So basically, all the tropes. 
> 
> I also researched whisky and gin (hardship, that), and Scottish ecology and land-use (thanks @FaerieChild!) 
> 
> But really, this is just a mass of tropes with exactly the same plot as every Hallmark Film ever made. And since Hallmark films tend to be set in "Middle America" there are some tropes that might not translate perfectly to the Scottish village I shoehorned them into. Sorry... let's all just squint and pretend.
> 
> Much thanks to @Midrashic and @Faeriechild for the beta help and hand-holding!
> 
> I'm gifting this to @Boffin1710, who posted a Hallmark Plot generator and got me started. And who is the MI6-cafe resident expert on Hallmark films, through no fault of his own.
> 
> Happy New Year! May a Christmas story in January help you through taking down all the decorations...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the City Boy is drawn to the country for reasons.

[Cover Inspiration.](https://ato-the-bean.tumblr.com/post/190435094465/highland-christmas-cover)

Bond enters the branch like a storm sweeping across the desert: thunderous and glowering and sending small creatures scampering for cover.

Or in this case, Q's team of boffins in ugly Christmas sweaters, elf hats, and/or flashing reindeer antlers.

Q watches from the high ground of his station as minions scurry out of 007’s way and then peek out from behind their monitors as he approaches Q’s perch scowling like old Ebaneazer — or the Grinch. Upsetting the jolly atmosphere he’s managed to create in the branch _despite_ the stress of their work.

Arse. Q can’t imagine what has Bond’s knickers in a twist: their last two missions have gone off swimmingly. _Alec_ has been giving him grey hairs. Margot has gotten him ending his evenings with a stiff drink. But he and Bond have had relatively peaceful interactions. As peaceful as the jobs allow, anyway.

Q schools his features into amiable disinterest. “007. What brings you to terrorize my staff on this lovely day?”

Bond just drops a sheet of paper on Q’s keyboard.

Q scans the document. “What seems to be the trouble?”

“It’s about Skyfall Lodge.”

“So I see.”

“I don’t _own_ Skyfall Lodge. It was sold while I was ‘dead’. And then it burnt to the ground.”

Q hands back the sheet of fine stationery with the crest of Stewart Clan at the top and a “Dear Messrs James Bond and Quain Stewart” as the salutation. One of Q’s aliases. No wonder Bond has come to find him. “Do you _ever_ read your email?” he asks.

“Yes.”

Q swipes his trackpad to bring up a new desktop screen and navigates to his folder for the Skyfall Mission correspondence. He opens an email that came to him from Legal, which he’d clearly forwarded to Bond within a week of M’s death. He feels Bond still as he reads it over Q’s shoulder.

“As you would have known if you’d opened your mail, the new owners weren’t keen on having their recent purchase deemed uninhabitable and threatened to sue the government. MI6 sprang into action for once, declared that it had been wrongfully sold — seeing as how you were actually alive and all — restored the purchase funds to the couple, restored your name to the title, and estimated the value of the damage to make a claim against our insurance for mission-related damages. Mallory and I both signed off that the mission _was_ official, if impromptu, so the claim would go through. Six also paid to have the ruin brought up to a certain safety code to reduce your liability, as we often do in these instances. I’m sure you received dozens of emails about it.” Q straightens his glasses and turns to Bond. “We actually went to quite a bit of trouble to put things right.”

The fury has drained out of Bond’s form. “The subject line on this one is ‘Form LC-1287’. Legal Circular… I was getting a lot of those when I first returned and the paperwork to declare me ‘not dead yet’ was still going through. My solicitor and Legal were handling most everything, and I just ignored the ones I was copied or forwarded on.” His tone isn’t exactly sheepish, but it’s quite a bit less accusatory than it had been.

“Well, that explains it, then. Happy Christmas, Bond. Your family estate is… reinstated. According to this, bits of it may even be semi-livable,” Q says, motioning to the letter.

Bond does not look happy. If anything, his shoulders sag and he looks pale against the flashing multi-colored fairy lights pulsing through the room. “I suppose this means I _do_ have to deal with it, then. I was hoping it was some sort of prank.”

“Why on earth would it be a prank?”

“There’s a bit of a tradition at -6. White Elephant parties, mistletoe in odd places. This seemed a bit cruel, but…” He sighs. “I don’t suppose I can interest you in a slightly used Scottish estate?”

“It’s your _family_ home,” Q says incredulously.

“I never wanted it. I hate the old place. Always have. Maybe I should just sell it to…” he looks at the paper. “Diagleon LLC.”

“They’re asking you _not_ to sell it to the multinational corporation,” Q reminds James.

“They’re asking _us_ , actually. Maybe you should go meet with them to…” He looks at the letter again. “Discuss potential options.”

“But it’s not _mine_. They just have my name off the forms.”

“They think you’re a long-lost relative, probably. And that we’re partners, from the looks of it. Definitely important enough that you can go negotiate with them in my stead.”

Q has returned to the computer screen he had open before Bond appeared and is trying to find what he was working on. Sometimes when faced with ridiculous suggestions, it’s just best to ignore them. He notices Moneypenny enter the branch and wander over to R’s station. Bugger. It’s never good when those two get to conniving...

“Q, did you hear what I said? I think you should go to Scot—”

“I’m listening to you. I’m just not paying attention to such a ridiculous suggestion.”

Bond stiffens. “Well, I’m not wasting my holiday in some god-forsaken village. I have the Christmas Gala to attend—”

“That’s _days_ away,” Q admonishes. “And I’d think you’d appreciate the opportunity to get out of the city in the height of the Christmas shopping frenzy and tourists crowding up Harrods. I plan to hole up with the cats when I’m not here. Besides, they’ve booked you a suite,” he says, nodding toward the paper.

“Have they?” Bond asks, glancing at the letter again. He looks up at Q with a gleam in his eye. “Well then, there’ll be plenty of room for both of us.”

“Both of… have you gone _mad,_ Bond? Why on earth should _I_ go?” R and Moneypenny are approaching, and Q does _not_ like the expression on either one of them.

“You just said you wanted to avoid the holiday crowds. Have you been to Scotland before?”

Q schools his features. “Not for a long time, and never in the Highlands. Is it nice this time of year?”

“Not particularly.”

Q snorts a laugh.

“If you like mud with your freezing rain and fog, it’s ideal,” Bond continues.

Q sighs. “Well, despite that glowing praise, I think _you_ should see what they want. Not everyone has such a tangible tie to their roots… you shouldn’t take it for granted.”

“Let’s ask these charming ladies,” Bond suggests.

“Ask us what?” Moneypenny asks, handing Q an official personnel circular.

“Whether a trip to Scotland might be good for Q’s health,” Bond submits, watching Q take the paper and look it over, becoming more and more horrified as he reads.

“No.”

“M was quite insistent. It’s one thing for you to log overtime when we have multiple missions ongoing, but things are quiet. And he’ll get his arse handed to him if you don’t use at least some of your time this year.”

“But I have projects I’m in the midst of,” Q complains.

“Nothing time-sensitive. And it’s the holidays. Even boffins need breaks.”

“But—”

“I can handle it, boss. And I took a whole week at Diwali to visit family. It’s my turn,” R insists.

“I’m sure you can handle it. That’s not the issue.”

“Well, it seems settled then,” Bond says, buttoning his jacket and backing away. “You’ve plenty of time, and there’s nothing like a trip to Scotland to force you to take a break. I’ll pick you up in the morning, shall I? Long drive. Should get an early start.”

“Bond, no. Just because I have time on my hands doesn’t mean I have to escort you up to Carnoch.”

Eve’s eyebrows nearly reach her hairline.

“Then I’ll just write and say I’m happy to entertain the offer from Diagleon LLC and be done with it, shall I?”

“ _No_ ,” Q insists.

“Well, you’re much more invested in the old place than I am.”

“I’ve never even been,” Q protests.

“Well then, it’s high time you see it,” James counters. “Pack warm. I’ll be round at ten.” And with that Bond leaves the branch with an infuriating spring in his step. Q, Eve, and R all watch in silence as if mesmerized until the glass door swings shut on his exit.

“What just happened?” Q asks.

“I’d say you need to leave early so you can pack,” Eve says with a grin.

Q looks back and forth at them, his second and his boss’s “secretary”. His eyes narrow. “I hate all of you.”

“Happy Christmas, Q,” Eve calls as she sashays from the room.

“Bloody fucking spies,” Q mutters.

It’s only hours later, when Q is packing — because of course he is — that he thinks to wonder how Bond knows where to pick him up. “My address is classified,” he tells Matilda, who is nestled amongst the piles of folded jumpers and turtlenecks.

She twitches a whisker.

“So you see, he shouldn’t know where—”

His phone vibrates. His _personal_ phone.

_Undisclosed Number: See you at 10. Don’t forget to pack rain gear. And boots._

Q glares at it a moment, raises an eyebrow at the cat, and then glares at it some more.

Bloody _fucking_ spies.


	2. The Inn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the lodging reservation is not as expected, but Bond is just as much of an arse as expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting this chapter a bit earlier than intended since the last was so short...

“So why do you hate it?” Q asks several hours into their drive north, once the caffeine has jump-started his brain a bit and the battery on his laptop has run down to naught. Grey clouds meet feeble green and mud-brown fields in a line smeared with drizzle, but Q still finds it oddly picturesque. If a bit melancholy.

“Hate what?” James asks, turning down the stereo. He’s a picture of refinement. His wool coat alone is probably worth more than everything in Q’s suitcase, even now that Q actually cares about his clothes and isn’t worried about spending a bit to get things he likes. Still, James Bond’s sartorial choices seem designed to make those around him feel inadequate. He’s noticeably posh and elegant even in the most elegant settings, and amongst mere mortals — or quirky boffins — he stands out completely. It seems an odd thing for a spy, whose job is to blend in.

“The village of your youth and forebears,” Q answers. They’re still hours away, but they’ve definitely left behind the cities and suburbs and are in long stretches that are… if not exactly wild, then certainly remote.

Bond turns back to the road, his demeanor closed-off. After a moment, he says, “Well, the local pub _never_ serves caviar, and the population is too small for the sorts of anonymous affairs I prefer. I’d have bedded everyone of interest within a week and probably caused multi-generational feuds in my wake.”

It’s meant to be funny. Q snorts, but it’s not the light amusement that sometimes creeps into their banter.

James straightens up. “I’m an international spy. I vacation in Monaco and the Maldives. I have a flat that overlooks the skyline of one of the greatest cities in the world. What on earth would I want with a tiny provincial hamlet and a country estate? I don’t have or _want_ a family, which would be the _only_ reason to entertain the notion of keeping it.”

Q looks out the window. It’s a strange sort of privilege, he decides, having something like an estate and not wanting it. Having a family name and ties to the land and preferring jets and penthouse apartments. But he supposes he understands, in a way. He’s never gone back to the city of his youth, and he easily could have, and wouldn’t have even been noticed. James surely would be, entering some small burg. He’d be the talk of the town. Though it seems that perhaps he’s been gone long enough that the villagers might just take him for another tourist.

“I thought I’d said goodbye to it for the last time,” Bond muses softly, and Q isn’t even sure he’s meant to have heard.

The rain clears as they stop for lunch outside the Lake District, at a place quite a bit more posh than Q would have picked. Even so, Bond sighs as he bites into his chicken.

“Should have gotten the curry pasty,” Q remarks. “It’s lovely.”

Q retrieves a spare laptop battery from his luggage before they’re on their way again, doing a bit of research as Bond remains lost in thought. The silence that’s fallen between them… it’s not _un_ comfortable, exactly. Q likes the music Bond selects, even if he doesn’t listen to much orchestral or chamber music normally. Bond’s infrequent comments about the countryside — just bits of trivia really — are interesting and keep Q aware of his surroundings, while his research helps him understand what he’s walking into.

The sun is low in the sky by the time they pass through Glasgow and sets as they enter the wilds of the Trossachs, alpenglow making the mountain fens glisten with gold, in contrast with the dramatic shadows darkening the valleys. Q doesn’t remember anything like it from his youth, but then he was always venturing south.

The heater in the DB5 keeps them warm as the countryside grows colder, the gentle rain changing to sleet as they travel north. By the time they approach the village, it’s been dark for a long while, Q sensing the mountains around him more than being able to see them. As they crest the pass, twinkling lights appear in the distance, nestled up against the black of the loch.

As they pull up to the small inn, Q realizes he’s starving, which seems odd considering he’s done nothing all day. They grab their bags and run up the path through the rain to the door. A moment later Q finds himself in an entry with a large coat rack and a small desk. It looks like it could be something out of a grandparent’s house: floral wallpaper and pictures lining the walls. It’s warm. And it smells good.

The owner of the little inn, Aileen, says, “We’ve held some dinner for you boys. The pub down the street is open as well if you’d rather, but we have a nice lamb stew with potatoes and a fillet we can fry up, and traditional scotch pie if that’s more up your street. I can get you settled at the table in the window while Charles brings your things upstairs.”

“Well, that was very kind of you,” Q says as James signs them in. “Lamb stew sounds lovely.”

She coos her pleasure as Bond’s eyes widen in disbelief at Q’s words, but he covers his surprise quickly. “Lovely,” Bond agrees, setting down the pen.

They’re situated in a quaint room at a table by the window overlooking a central square in the town. Q can’t make out any details with the few street lights available, but he imagines something from a postcard. More historic photos line the walls, showing not only old buildings, but families apparently going back generations: picnics near the local ruins, fishing boats, people in kilts and long dresses next to a Christmas tree…

If Bond is affected by any of it, it doesn’t show.

“I’ll have the fillet, medium rare, and two fingers of Cardhu, please,” he says, removing his leather gloves.

“We don’ carry that here,” the waiter says, “but I’ve got something even better I can bring ye. A local specialty.”

Bond looks skeptical, but nods his assent.

“And for you, sir?”

“Lamb stew, please,” Q says, making eye contact and smiling to try to compensate for Bond’s aloof demeanor. “And a glass of the local specialty.”

“Coming right up,” the man says with a grin to Q.

Bond looks up at his retreating form. “A bit old for you, isn’t he?”

“What?” Q asks, looking up from his perusal of the whisky list. “I wasn’t _flirting_ , Bond, I was being friendly. You might try it sometime.”

“I’m often friendly.”

“No you’re not,” Q corrects. “You’re often _charming_. When you want something. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen you be friendly.”

He goes back to the whisky list, ignoring the way Bond is staring at him.

Their dinner comes, and it’s delicious. Even Bond has to admit that the whisky is _excellent_. Somehow both complex and smooth. They get a second round to sip neat in the place of a pudding. Q leans back in his chair as they enjoy their scotch, the fire in the hearth offsetting the draft from the window and making the whole place feel cozy and homey. As warm on the outside as the scotch is making him feel on the inside.

He’s feeling quite content by the time they’re shown to their room. Aileen walks them up the narrow stairs and opens the door with a proud flourish and…

There’s only one bed.

There’s a little fireplace and a chaise, but only one bed. And not a particularly large one.

“I’m sorry,” Q says, searching for words around his drink-muddled mind. “I thought this was meant to be a suite.”

“ _En suite_ , love. The loo is just through there. Our other rooms all share a common washroom at the end of the hall.”

That… makes sense, Q supposes.

“Uh—”

“I’ll just leave you to it, then,”

She closes the door, and Q turns to confront Bond, who’s smirking almost gleefully.

“You knew!” Q accuses.

“It’s not my fault that you didn’t read the letter carefully,” Bond insists, removing his jacket and hanging it in the small wardrobe. “The idea that there’s a hotel in this village large enough to have a suite is truly hilarious. Thank you, Q. I enjoyed it immensely. But as you can see, the bed is plenty big for both of us, so there’s no harm.”

“No har— Bond. I am _not_ sharing a bed with you!”

“But I hardly ever steal the covers,” Bond insists.

 _Infuriating_ man! Q takes a deep breath, trying to control his temper. “I’ll just go see to getting another room.”

“You do that,” Bond replies, placing his suitcase on the bed and removing his spare suits to hang in the wardrobe.

_Wanker._

Q makes his way back downstairs and catches Aileen just as she’s retiring.

“I’m so sorry to disturb you, but I was wondering if I could book a separate room. I’m not keen on sharing.”

“Oh, love, I’m sorry. We’re full up through New Year's. Did you have a bit of a domestic on your way up?” Aileen asks, shaking her head sympathetically.

“That’s one way of putting it.” Q says, sighing and looking around. “I don’t suppose there are other inns that might have availability.”

“We’re the largest in town,” Aileen explains. “I could make some calls for you in the morning, but everyone’s probably in bed by now.”

“No, it’s fine.” Q forces a smile. “I don’t want to put you to any trouble.”

“How about I get you some extra bedclothes, and you can make him sleep on the chaise,” she suggests with a wink.

“That will _never_ happen,” Q replies with an exasperated sigh. “James Bond is far too selfish to think about someone else’s comfort. But I’ll gladly take the linens for myself.”

He lets himself back in the room to find it dark except for the glow of the fire, James already in the far side of the bed turned away from the door. Q sets the linens on the chaise and digs his pajamas and toiletry kit from his duffel. He _is_ grateful that he doesn’t have to wander down the hall to get ready. He comes back into the room after washing his teeth, glad for the fire as he walks barefoot across the wood floor.

“What are you doing?” James asks as Q starts spreading the linens across the small chaise lounge.

Q nearly jumps out of his skin. “Bloody hell, I thought you were asleep. I’m making up a place to sleep.”

“You’re being childish. There’s plenty of room in the bed.”

“Not wanting to share a bed with you _isn’t_ childish,” Q insists. Bond does have a point, though. It looks plenty big, and Bond is staying to one side and leaving room.

“It will be far more comfortable than that thing.”

Sighing, Q decides he can’t really argue with that logic. “If you’re sure.”

“Come to bed, Q.” James says and sets his head back down.

Q debates for a moment and finally decides the bed _does_ look rather warm and lovely.

He climbs in slowly, trying not to jostle the bed or encroach on Bond’s side as he settles himself. He finally stills, deciding this isn’t so bad, really, when James shifts.

“You’re naked,” Q accuses, sitting up.

“I always sleep in the buff,” James insists.

“Even when you’re sharing a bed?”

“Especially when I’m sharing a bed.”

“You _utter_ wanker,” Q huffs, kicking off the covers and getting up.

James sits up halfway, leaning on an elbow, his bare chest gleaming in the firelight. “On the contrary, I can typically find a willing partner and don’t need to wank.” He raises an eyebrow and looks Q over, as if questioning whether he could claim the same.

Q nearly growls in frustration and stomps over to the chaise. “Well, I suppose at your age the libido _does_ drop off. Pulling the occasional stranger _would_ be enough to satisfy you.” He turns his back resolutely to Bond and arranges the linens on the chaise, climbing in and pulling the covers over himself.

This is much better, actually. The fire is warm and lovely, crackling just enough that he almost doesn’t hear the silence in the room behind him. And no one’s going to try to steal the covers.

“Q,” Bond attempts, uncertain humor in his voice. “I didn’t mea—”

“Bond?”

“Yes?”

“Go the fuck to sleep.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	3. The Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Q is charmed by Bond’s village, if not Bond himself, and they learn the real purpose behind the Skyfall offers. (Cue Hallmark Trope: Big Evil Corporation has plans that will ruin a small, charming village).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Midrashic for all the beta help and the folks at MI6 Cafe for writing support and sprints. And also especially to Faeriechild for being my go-to source of information on all things Scottish, especially history, ecology, and distillery history. I've been bending her ear quite a bit, but for this chapter, I actually asked her to read and "Scotspick" for me. And the chapter is better for it. :D
> 
> I'm thinking I need to share the list of Hallmark Tropes and Fanfic Tropes that I made in support of this fic... the ones I check off with each new chapter. Maybe at the very end.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who's been reading and commenting!

Q wakes a bit before dawn — which is still well past eight this far north — to a sore back and cold feet. Literally. The covers slipped from the foot of the chaise at some point during the night, and the fire nearly went out as well. Q decides to take it as an opportunity, slipping into the en suite with his toiletries and a change of clothes, and locking the door carefully before taking a delightfully steamy shower.

A bit later he sneaks back through the room in his stocking feet, carrying his shoes and grabbing his coat on the way out. Bond remains blissfully asleep or fakes it well — Q isn’t much bothered about the truth of the matter. He’s just glad he won’t have to engage the man.

The old wood stairs creak as he descends, sounding impossibly loud in the silence of the lobby. Faint noises come from the kitchen, but otherwise, the place is deserted.

Or nearly so.

“Heading out?” asks a familiar man reading the paper in the sitting room. The innkeeper, if memory serves.

“Oh, god.” Q places a hand over his heart and tries to steady it. “You startled me… Charles.” Q hopes he remembers the name correctly. “Thought I’d go for a bit of a walk.”

Charles folds the paper and leans his elbows on his knees. “The best bakery in town is down Park Lane a bit… across from the church. Don’t tell Aileen I sent you there. She likes her own scones,” he adds with a wink.

“It’ll be our secret,” Q agrees, donning his coat and gloves and slipping out through the door.

He didn’t really see the town the night before, but now as the sun breaks over the mountains to the east he realizes that he really has stepped into a postcard. If he’d tried to imagine a more storybook, quintessential version of a lakeside Highlands village, he wouldn’t be able to do it. Small wooden boats bob on the loch; a few fishermen walk out to the docks along the sea wall carrying creels. Q wonders if it’s crabs or langoustine they’re after. Across the promenade, colorful three-storey buildings with peaked central gables stand watch as if supervising the fishermen’s work, and above that, higher up on the hillside, an austere manor house towers over all of it. Up and down the side streets, cottages range from ancient white-washed dwellings with thatched roofs to relatively modern Victorian structures. The scent of the sea is strong on the breeze, but as he rounds the corner, the aroma from the bakery overwhelms it, and Q’s stomach growls.

A bell chimes as he enters the shop. “Be right with you!” someone calls from the back. Bannock scones are already cooling in the case, and Q eyes them greedily. “‘Ello,” the woman says, wiping her hand on her apron. “I’ve got mince pies cooling and Dundee cakes coming out of the oven in a mo'. And there's black bun in the back I can slice and warm for you. What can I get you?”

Q can hardly decide. “Just a scone and a tea for now, but maybe some black bun before I leave.”

“Lovely,” she says, ringing him up. “Where’ve you come up from? The city?”

He knows she likely means Inverness. “A bit south of there. Up from London.”

“Really? Well, to each his own. What brings you to our neck of the heath, Mr…”

“Stewart,” Q says. “Quain,” he amends. “I’m up with a… well, I’m doing a bit of a favor for someone, I think. But he’s being a bit of an arse about it,” he confides. Why, he has no idea…

“Is he a Scotsman?”

“Yes,” Q answers. More or less, anyway.

“He probably doesn’t appreciate owing you,” she muses as she makes his tea. “A bit proud, maybe,” she guesses.

“I think you’re mispronouncing ‘prat’,” Q suggests.

She grins. “Maybe so. That’s four pounds twenty.”

He finishes his breakfast as she pulls more and more treats from the oven and tells him about the town: the sunken garden on Croft Lane, the old cairns about a mile out of town, the castle ruins on the east side of town, the small museum of local history…

Q orders some more treats for the road and starts exploring. The roads are chilly and nearly empty at first, but become warmer — both literally and figuratively — as the morning stretches on. Tiny shops open, their owners putting signs out on the sidewalks to boast specials for Christmas and greeting Q and chatting him up as he passes. The side streets are steep, climbing the bases of craggy, golden hills that embrace the town from the south. In the distance, snow extends halfway down the tallest peaks, forming a straight boundary at the snowline and looking for all the world like the mountains are wearing white hats.

It’s all terribly beautiful and quaint. He turns back toward the inn in a much better mood than he was when he left and nearly aches at the way people wave and say his name as he passes back in the other direction, as if he’s been here all his life and they actually know him. As he rounds a corner and sees the inn in the distance, he thinks for the first time to check his phone.

Eight texts from Bond. Ranging from indignant to worried to apologetic. Bugger.

He nearly crashes into Bond as he hurriedly enters the lobby.

“Here he is,” Bond says, steadying Q with a hand on the shoulder. “Your clansman has been eagerly awaiting your arrival, Quain.”

Q turns towards a smiling man in a tweed coat and cap, stretching out his arm. “Sorry if I kept you waiting. I took a walk around town and didn’t realize I still had my phone on ‘do not disturb’. I was gone longer than I’d intended.”

“Creighton Stewart,” the man replies as means of introduction. “You’re just exactly on time; don’t you worry at all. It gave me and Mr. Bond a moment to get acquainted. I’ll just see if Charles has our table ready while you sort your coat.”

He disappears into the dining room and James turns to confront Q.

“Where were you, _really_? It doesn’t take more than five minutes to walk the length of this town.”

“Maybe if you don’t actually see anything,” Q retorts. “I was exploring. Anyway, what’s it to you?”

Bond straightens up a bit awkwardly. “I thought maybe you’d taken the train back,” he says quietly.

“Without my things?” Q asks incredulously. “I _did_ pick up a schedule, but, no. I didn’t sneak off.”

Bond puts his hands in his pockets and looks toward the dining room. “I’m not used to you not being available.”

“This isn’t a _mission_ , Bond,” Q hisses. “You don’t get me at your beck and call just because you’re used to it.”

“I don’t want to fight.”

“Well, then stop being a prat. I had a lovely time exploring your little village. Don’t ruin it. Let’s go see what this bloke has to say,” Q suggests, pushing the sleeves of his jumper up. “Then you can be on your way if you hate it so much.”

“You’re planning to stay?” James’ eyebrows are near his hairline.

“I don’t know. But you needn’t worry either way. I can catch the train home to London on my own.” And with that he walks into the dining room, finding Creighton at a far table big enough for six, but with settings for the three and a map spread across the remainder of the table. Creighton motions for them to sit across from him, while Aileen sets plates of bread, cheeses, sliced meats and sausages in front of them. Charles arrives a moment later with a tray of small tasting glasses — no larger than shot glasses but curved like proper whisky glasses — and lines up six in front of each of their seats. The map illustrates the region of western Scotland they’re in.

“So,” Creighton begins as they tuck into their food, drawing himself up as if starting a rehearsed speech. “You may know that historically there were hundreds of small distilleries throughout the Highlands. They primarily distributed to only a small geographic area, sometimes only parts of Scotland. As a few of these got larger, and shipping whisky became more and more international, there was consolidation. A few whisky producers grew and became well-known, many smaller ones got bought out or just went under. A relative few brands became the face of Scotch whisky, and if those weren’t already powerful enough, conglomerates started buying up the bigger names.”

He reaches into a case on the floor and pulls up a bottle of Scotch. “Currently, one conglomerate owns 38% of the market, including such names as Singleton, Talisker, Cardhu, Johnnie Walker, J&B, Buchanan's, White Horse…”

“Let me guess,” Bond interrupts. “Diagleon, LLC.”

“Exactly,” Creighton says, pouring a finger in the first of their tasting whisky glasses. Q studies the label after the bottle is set down. It’s quite old-fashioned, with an ink sketch of a familiar mountain above the distillery name, and a “Since 1815” in small script along the bottom. “Another conglomerate owns the next 20% of the market. So that’s nearly 60% in the hands of two companies. As you can imagine, they throw their weight around.”

“Suppressing competitive practices?” Q guesses.

“Quite.” Creighton lifts his glass, and James and Q follow suit. “Taste this one, lads, before you start on your venison sausage. _Slàinte mhath_!”

They raise their glasses, repeating the phrase Q probably hasn’t used in ten years. Q is pleasantly surprised at his first sip. It’s lovely. Even Bond finishes his glass and eyes the label before digging into the lunch.

Creighton pours a finger from another bottle into the second glass in front of each of them. This one has the same label as the first, but “12 years” beneath the name. “Of late, there’s been a resurgence in small, family-owned distilleries. Experimenting with new blends. New casking techniques. Some of the local pubs have started serving only small labels to try to encourage the industry, because we hire local people and keep money in the village economies. And we give the young people an industry to train in that doesn’t force them to the cities.”

Q takes a sip of the next glass, and it’s even better than the last. There’s a bit of caramel to it. Not sweet exactly, but it smooths the edges off nicely. Before they’ve finished that glass, Creighton pours a bit from another bottle in the third of their glasses.

“We’ve also started having annual contests for distilleries with less than half a percent of the market. Craft distilleries. Our company won two awards last year, one for this whisky,” Creighton says, lifting his third glass. The others follow suit, and this time even Bond seems impressed.

“That _is_ good,” he declares, taking another sip immediately. “Which one is this?”

Creighton sets the bottle on the table and lets Bond read the label. “Double casks?” he asks.

Creighton nods. “This one finishes for a year in sherry casks. Of course, it’s hard to be too experimental with things that have to age three to twelve years, so we’ve also branched out into gin-making.” He pours a clear liquid into the fourth of their glasses. “Best eat some cheese to clear your palate before tasting that. So, gin is where the Skyfall Estate comes into the story. Our distillery has been around for 200 years, using whisky recipes even older than that. We’re located here,” Creighton points on the map. “Making room for the additional stills was no problem, but we don’t actually own any land, see? And we wanted our botanicals to come from Scotland. Now, Albert, the old Skyfall gamekeeper, he’s become more of a groundskeeper of late. Since the family wasn’t hunting the deer anymore, he started managing the lands for more diversity. He actually started selling venison to the village to cull the herd. He works with the local butcher to retrieve the animals and clean them — the sausage you’re eating now is Skyfall venison — and a percentage of the meat sales go back to the estate. He’s used the funds to build fencing around trees and other botanicals the deer would normally eat. As a result, Skyfall now has nice copses of native juniper here and here,” he says, pointing at the map, “large enough that he lets us harvest the berries. This is our most basic gin,” he says, holding up the glass of clear liquid. “Just juniper, Scots pine, orange peel, and roseroot.” He lifts his glass and takes a small sip.

“You can get all that off the estate?” Bond asked incredulously.

“All but the citrus, which we get from an old Georgian orangery outside Edinburgh. And actually, the estate has much more. Now, that gin is perfectly fine for mixing, but it’s nothing special. New markets for small-batch gins are for things smooth enough and complex enough that you can sip them neat. Beyond our basic gin, we have our “Stag’s Leap” which has another 12 botanicals, all off the estate.” Creighton pours from another clear bottle into their fifth glasses. “This also won an award last year, and that’s what’s brought Diagleon down on our heads. Winning in both whisky and gin caught their attention. And when they found out we were rather tied to the estate, they decided the easiest way to knock us out would be to cut off our source of botanicals.”

“But surely you could source them elsewhere in Scotland,” Q suggests, taking a sip. He’s not usually one for gin, but this _is_ interesting. Lighter than the whisky, with delicate flavors. Something aromatic and floral, a bit herbal… like rosemary, maybe. And a slightly peatish finish.

“Aye, we could, but the price would go up and quality would go down, and we’re at a place with the business that… well, it might end us. See, we _know_ Skyfall. We know where all the plants grow, have been mapping their populations for the last few years… it’s easy to take walks out there on the weekends or evenings, and Albert keeps an eye on things, too. So, when we’re ready for a new batch, we just go collect. It’s all fresh, and that shows up in the taste, especially for the greens and flowers we vapor infuse so they don’t ‘cook’ too much. That’s what sets us apart, see? Even if we could replicate it with other sources, they’d be all over and it would cost a lot more, possibly to the point of not being profitable. And they probably wouldn’t be as fresh once we were working with them. Now, I don’t know what Diagleon intends to do with the estate other than keep us off it, but the worst case would be what they did in Cladich.”

“What happened there?” Bond asks.

“They bought one of the old distilleries, tore it down, built a big warehouse, and brought in people from outside to run it. It’s changed the whole village. Ruined it, some say.”

Bond takes another thoughtful sip as Creighton pours a light amber liquid in the sixth of their glasses. “We’re at a crossroads with the business. We’ve started experimenting with aging the gin in barrels. Gin is so fast to make, see, we can try a lot of things. We’ve had two wins and ideas for new products, and we could really take off. But not if we get stifled now.” He sets the glass down and leans against the table. “I’d thought that the owners of the estate were aware of what we were doing, but Albert recently told me that you aren’t much involved, Mr. Bond. Hadn’t been here for years. Live away in London or something. And I understand. I have friends and family who have gone south. It can be quite a draw.

“I don’t have any claim to those lands, and no claims to you, Mr. Bond. I didn’t even know your family. Maybe Mr. Stewart and I are fellow clansmen, but we all know that doesn’t mean what it once did. I’d understand if you don’t want to be responsible for a family estate you never visit. I can understand if an offer from Diagleon seems a perfect way out. I’m sure they can offer you more than it’s worth, which I won’t be able to.” He sighs. “I just didn’t want you thinking that your selling would make no difference to the people here. Maybe your ties to them aren’t as strong as they used to be, but this village used to be your home. And before you just accept Diagleon’s offer… well, I’ve gone to a bank to try to get financing to see what sort of offer _we_ could make you. I just need a bit more time.”

“What would you do with it, if you had the estate?” Bond asks. “Other than harvest the botanicals?”

Creighton ponders a moment as he sips the aged gin. “Mind you, I don’t have a full plan yet.” He points at a portion of the map. “These are the areas with the best botanicals, so we’d keep those as is or expand them. Keep old Albert on to mind them — his cottage is close anyway. He’s got the deer population more or less under control and what’s left of the herd stays to the moors and looks nice. Now that there’s more cover, he has coveys of black grouse as well as the red grouse that nests on the moors. He knows that property better than anyone.” He takes another thoughtful sip. “In time, we’d probably build a second distillery here,” he points at the map. “It’s near the road and out of sight of the historic buildings because of the juniper on that little rise. Eventually, we could restore the old lodge and make it into an inn and restaurant, I suppose, but it will be a while before we have the capital for that. But it would be a nice long-range plan… give us a place to showcase the spirits. Maybe have tasting meals.”

“And the chapel?”

“What about it? It’s a chapel. I wouldn’t do anything with it.”

Bond nods and finishes his drink. His plate is clear, too. “It seems I need to go have a chat with Kincade.”

“I haven’t gotten him in trouble, have I?” Creighton asks, alarm in his voice. “He says you’ve left him to manage the estate for the time being.”

“He’s right. Whether I said it out loud or not. Thank you for explaining the situation to me. I look forward to getting your offer.”

“You’ll think about it, then?”

“I’m not making any promises, but two offers are always better than one,” Bond asserts. “And I’ll give it careful consideration.”

This wasn’t the response Creighton was hoping for, clearly. He forces a smile and nods. “As soon as I hear from the bank, I’ll let you know,” he promises. He gathers up his things, giving Q a plaintive look as if he thinks _Q_ may be able to have some sway on Bond’s decision — if he only knew... Q can’t even make Bond follow orders. Creighton offers them each a business card with his contact information, leaves the two award-winning bottles as gifts, and bids them goodbye.

Bond leans back in the chair, considering the bottles as he finishes what’s been poured in his glasses. Q concludes his meal, and Bond finally turns to him. “Did you see the butcher’s shop in your travels this morning?”

“Hmmm.” Q nods, swallowing his last bite. “Down the lane, make a right on Park and it’ll be on the corner in... fourth or fifth place on the right, I think.”

“I need to go for a drive,” Bond says, standing. “You can have the bed tonight. I may be late. Just leave the extra linens on the chaise and I’ll make it up when I get back.”

“Are you going to the lodge?” Q asks, disappointment coloring his voice. He hoped he’d be invited to see it, but perhaps their fight put Bond off the idea.

Bond shakes his head. “By the time we got out there, we’d be nearly out of daylight. Best to leave it for tomorrow. I’ll call Kincade and work it out. Would you be… would you like to join me for the visit?”

Q’s surprised to find Bond’s tone almost apologetic. As if he wants Q to come as well, but is also unsure about their status.

“I’d be happy to,” Q assures. “And thank you for giving me the bed tonight. Aileen is right; there’s nothing else available in the town.”

Bond nods thoughtfully. “Just put your dinner on the tab for the room. I’ll cover it.”

“You don’t have to do that, Bond. I’m perfectly capable of paying my own way.”

“Even so,” James says, offering Q an awkward, distracted smile and turning to go.

“I’m going to order more of that whisky on your tab, then,” Q calls after him. Bond waves his approval without turning around.

“Is Mr. Bond okay?” Aileen asks as she clears the plates a moment later.

“Who can tell?” Q quips.

“Hmmm,” she looks back toward the front door as it closes behind Bond. Turning back to Q, she asks, “Going out again?”

“I don’t know. It looks chilly out there, and I’m feeling rather warm and comfortable now.” He looks around the room for something to do. There’s a hearth with a fire built up and some squashy chairs; he could go get some of the journals he brought up. Q wrinkles his nose at the thought. Or he could nick one of the novels off the built-in shelves and just relax. Or… he spies a piano in a dark corner of the room. “Do you think anyone would mind if I played your piano for a bit?”

“Oh, love. That hasn’t been played since our Danny left for the continent. I don’t even think it’s in tune.”

“Do you have a tuning kit?”

“Aye, in the bench compartment.”

“If you can get it in tune, I’ll buy your scotch this afternoon,” Charles says gruffly.

“You’re on. And I’ll teach you, if you like. It’s not hard if you have the right tools.”

Q spends the rest of a very pleasant day first tuning and then playing a lovely old Bechstein upright, obviously well-loved for 100 years, if slightly neglected the last few. It has a rich tone, and though Q is out of practice and fumbles through things a bit, Charles and Aileen have smiles on their faces the rest of the day. Nostalgia, perhaps, for when their son was still at home. It feels nostalgic for Q as well, reminiscent of some of the happier memories from his childhood. He only stops when the other guests come in for dinner, and he decides to eat in the corner table with a book and retire to bed early.

He wakens to Bond coming in the room hours later, despite the fact that Bond is clearly trying to be quiet. He’s unsure of the actual time and surprised to find the fire low and the room chilled. He half expects Bond to try to climb into bed with him, and when he doesn’t, he has a momentary flash of pity and nearly invites him to.

But then he hears Bond stoking the fire and building it up. He hears the rustle of the linens being sorted and the groan of the springs as Bond gets settled on the chaise. And he lets the weight of sleep pull him back into pleasant dreams.


	4. The Lodge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Q falls in love… with Bond’s childhood home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Midrashic and Faeriechild for beta reading and hand-holding. And all of you who are reading and commenting... you have no idea how it keeps me going.

Q wakes again with wan sun streaming into the room, warm under a downy comforter in a soft, lovely bed. He rolls onto his back, his head sinking deeply into the pillow that would feel like part of a luxurious spa if it didn’t smell like vanilla and lavender — definitely grandmotherly aromas.

It all comes rushing back as Q opens his eyes. The distillery. Bond wandering off in the afternoon and not returning until Q was in bed. Q sits up and leans against his elbows, and looks over the end of the bed to see James sleeping on the chaise, the covers low at his waist, his broad shoulders and back facing Q, the muscles clear even as Bond sleeps…

Oh, _bugger._ That isn’t going to help his morning… situation. He falls back against the pillow squeezing his eyes shut, trying to unsee those muscles, that strong back in the glow of the morning light… Bond _cannot_ suspect any attraction. It would be _beyond_ mortifying.

Maybe he can get up and into the loo before Bond wakes. A nice warm shower and a wank will sort him out and allow him to face his… whatever Bond is to him. Agent. Nemesis. Crush… horrid as that is. Bond is facing the hearth. If Q moves off the bed slowly, Bond might not wake.

Otherwise, who knows how long he’ll be trapped under the covers waiting for it to flag.

Q takes a few breaths, listening to the silence in the room, Bond’s steady breathing, just discernible if Q holds his own breath. It’s deep and even, like Good King Wenceslas’ snow. He braces himself, rolls slowly toward the edge of the bed as silent as the dead, starts to push himself to sitting and... a _painfully_ loud creak of springs shatters the silence of the room.

Q freezes. Bond shifts and makes a little groan that goes straight to Q’s cock.

Bugger bugger _bugger!_

Q lays back down, trying to shift his body such that his erection isn’t completely obvious under the comforter. Bond rolls onto his back, licking his lips in a way that is _not_ helping... and Q closes his eyes and pretends to be asleep. A moment later, Bond sits up and stretches his back this way and that, working out the kinks.

Kinks. Kink. Still not helpful.

Then Bond kicks off the covers and stands. And Q should _not_ look. Granted, it’s probably the closest he’ll get to seeing Bond naked in all his glory. Maybe even _morning glory_ , if he’s lucky.

He shouldn’t look. He really _shouldn’t_ look.

He looks.

“Bond, what the fuck are you wearing?”

Bond glances down and furrows his brows. “There was a late-night Tesco in Cladich. They didn’t have proper pajamas, but they had these.”

“Fleece sleep pants,” Q clarifies. “With Santa emojis.”

Bond shrugs. “They were on sale. And you indicated you were uncomfortable with nudity.”

It’s bubbled up before he realizes. A giggle that expands into a guffaw and finally into a true laugh, with tears streaming down Q’s cheeks and his sides aching. Bond has sat back down, at first stiffly — perhaps taking offense — and then rolling his eyes and smirking, and finally laughing along with Q.

“That’s the most ridiculous item of clothing I’ve ever seen,” Q chuckles.

“And coming from you, that’s saying something,” Bond quips.

“Hush… I’m in a good mood. Don’t spoil it.” He laughs again, wiping his eyes. “Thank you, Bond. That was very considerate of you.”

“No worries,” Bond replies, shaking his head. He looks Q over, and Q suddenly remembers that he’s also shirtless, having stripped his tee off at some point during the night when the covers became too much.

Q half expects disdain or mockery in Bond’s expression, but it looks more like… appreciation… before Bond turns away to face the hearth. “Do you want the shower first?”

“Ah, okay,” Q agrees, because his hysterics have sorted his previous problem admirably. “When is Kincade expecting us?”

“Mid-morning,” Bond answers. “We have time, but I’d prefer to get going. There’s a lot I want to see.”

Q nods. “I’ll be quick.”

Within the hour, they are in the dining room having breakfast. They’ve reached some sort of unspoken truce and are sitting comfortably and reading the paper, Bond drinking his coffee and Q his tea. They are both dressed for the outdoors, since that’s where they’ll be headed soon. Bond still looks sleek in his turtleneck and jumper, and Q realizes that it’s going to be harder to hide his admiration now that he’s no longer so angry with Bond. Fortunately, all his clothes are the sorts of things Bond teases him for, so there’s little chance he’ll have to deal with any reciprocal admiration from Bond.

He still can’t get over those emoji sleep pants.

“Where did you say you went yesterday?”

Bond folds the paper. “Cladich. After I had a chat with the butcher you told me about.”

“That was the other village, right? Where Diagleon bought out the distillery and built the warehouses?”

“It was,” Bond agrees grimly. “And now it has a late-night Tesco selling half-off stocking fillers days before Christmas, and a new housing complex, and shuttered stores in the downtown.”

“It doesn’t look like progress, then?” Q asks, taking another bite of his breakfast.

“Not to the people who have lived there all their lives,” Bond asserts. “I had supper at a small inn much like this one and chatted with the owner. The people Diagleon has brought in don’t want to eat at places like his. They want chains. There’s more money in the town, but it’s not going to the old businesses and it’s driving up rents and taxes. It’s not… evil exactly. Seen in a certain light, it could appear to be progress. But it’s progress that leaves the heart of the village behind.”

Q looks around at the little dining room he’s enjoyed the last few days. He likes the way it goes from nearly empty to bustling each mealtime. He likes the coziness and the menu that’s always changing based on what the kitchen can get that morning.

Aileen approaches with more hot water and coffee. “Anything else for you boys this morning?”

Bond smiles at her. “Could we get some cheese and bread and some of that venison sausage to go? We’ll be in the wilds today, and I’m not sure what will be available for lunch.”

“Certainly! Just give me a moment to pull that together. Be sure to be back by sundown, though. You don’t want to miss the tree lighting.” She nods outside, where ladders are being set up around the pine in the middle of the park.

“No, we don’t want to miss that,” Bond agrees.

Their breath hangs in frozen clouds as they make their way to the car. It’s cold and bright, with searing blue skies and frost on the rooftops. Q stomps his feet to warm them as Bond opens the door for him.

They head east, away from the loch and up one of the wide valleys. Q’s brain is still coming online. He cups the travel mug of tea Aileen made for him and watches the scenery go by: craggy hills and wide valley floors dotted with small houses. They gain elevation for a while and then turn up a single track road that leads over a small pass. The view at the top is panoramic. Steep hills extend up to their right, and to their left, a wide, sloping moor is interrupted by a small, shining pond. A stately stone manor lies at the base of the slope near the shore of a large loch. Mist is still rising off the golden moor, and frost clings to the grey stone walls of the manor, making everything glisten and shimmer. In the distance, the dark green of trees obscures the far end of the property and the bases of the hills.

“It’s _beautiful_!” Q exclaims.

Bond turns and looks at him in amazement. “I think the word you’re looking for is ‘bleak’. Or ‘damp’. Or a goddamned _ruin_.”

True, the manor doesn’t appear to have a roof. The fire _was_ described as rather spectacular.

“I’m surprised it’s standing at all,” Bond muses. “When I left it was absolutely engulfed in flames. It looked like hell was taking it back.”

Now Q looks at Bond incredulously. What had happened there to make Bond hate it so?

“Stone doesn’t burn,” Q states. “As long as there weren’t wood beams supporting them, the stone walls might still be stable enough to rebuild around.”

“Not among my priorities,” Bond says, turning down the drive toward the house.

They park just off the road, stopping at what Q realizes is a small chapel. Bond wordlessly gets out and walks up to the stone church, Q scrambling to follow. It’s cold, and the chapel has a deserted, neglected feel, even if it’s more intact than the manor. Grass lines the guttering. The slate path is cracked and overgrown. A small graveyard is fenced off to the side, and Q just makes out several “Bonds” on the broken headstones before following James inside. It’s shadowy, with sunlight streaming in through the windows and the holes in the roof, illuminating dust motes swirling through the air. The front of the chapel has two arched leaded-glass windows, surprisingly intact. But Bond doesn’t go to the front. He stops about a third of the way in, looking down at a particular tile in the floor. He stares silently for a moment and then drops to one knee, picking up a sprig of holly with a gloved hand.

And Q suddenly realizes what happened on this particular scrap of flooring. Why it’s significant. Why Bond is kneeling silently, and why someone may have _placed_ — not dropped — a spring of holly to mark the spot. He feels nearly overwhelmed at being allowed to see this: Bond mourning, even if he’s giving the word ‘stoic’ a new meaning. Q places a hand on Bond’s shoulder, surprised when Bond startles, and even more surprised when he settles again, accepting Q’s silent camaraderie and comfort.

They stay like that, remembering M, until they hear footsteps crunch outside. A moment later a bearded man in Wellingtons carrying a hunting rifle darkens the entry.

Bond just stands slowly, not alarmed at all. “Are you _still_ alive?” he asks with a smile.

“Are you still a jumped-up little shit?” the man asks brusquely.

“Ooh, I like him,” Q announces, making Bond huff a laugh.

“You?” Bond asks after a moment, holding up the sprig of holly.

“Aye, lad. Me.”

“Thank you.” He places it back on the tile. “Kincade, this is Q— Quain Stewart. Quain, this is Kincade, the gamekeeper for this old place.

“Oh, I owe ye thanks for my raise,” Kincade says, stepping forward to shake Q’s hand.

“Quain gave you a raise?” Bond asks.

“M— it was decided that having someone officially looking after the place... to keep teenagers from breaking into the ruin as it was being stabilized... might be wise. Who better than someone already managing things?”

“I see. Who better, indeed?”

“You going to sell?” Kincade asks gruffly.

Bond straightens up. “I’m not sure. I thought it best to have a look around before deciding. I understand you’ve been busy.”

“Well, the deer would take it down to bare earth, if I let them. Come on, I’ll show you the changes since the last time you paid attention. You didn’t get much chance to see things last time, what with the death threats and all.”

A dog joins them, coming along to trot beside Kincade as he walks them down the road, pointing into the distance to the trees, explaining the fencing to keep the deer out and let the seedlings have a chance. He tells Bond about coordinating with the Scottish Wildlife Trust to develop a plan for the estate. He’s only implemented it in portions of the land furthest from the house, but he’s already seen more diversity in the birds on the property.

“It’s all past that rise?” Bond asks, nodding to the copse of trees beyond the house.

“Aye. The deer still come through here,” he nods at the low vegetation between them and the house. “They head over the ridge to Macallister’s and beyond. They sometimes come back and bed for the night near the creek.”

“And how long has Creighton Stewart been collecting on the property?’

“Oh, on about two… three years, I’d say. Since the juniper grew up and started producing berries. He mostly collects in the fenced area, but he gets some things from the heath as well. He’s careful, though. Sometimes I can’t even tell where he’s been, and I’m watching for damage.”

“So, he’s respectful, you think? Not undoing your work.”

“He treads lightly,” Kincade confirms. “Do you want to see the fenced area? We could take the Land Rover,” he says, nodding to the vehicle parked by an old stone outbuilding that could have been for horses or cars — perhaps both at different points in history.

“Not yet,” Bond says, nodding grimly at the manor.

They approach what is clearly a new front door with a modern lock. Kincade pulls the key from a pocket, letting them into the ruin. The windows on the first floor are boarded over, but there’s plenty of light coming from the open windows of the second storey. And the missing roof. It’s quite impressive, actually, how tall the walls feel when there’s no second floor interrupting them. Q feels as if he’s in a cross between a cathedral and a maze. Well, a fairly simple maze. A donut, perhaps. The exterior walls are largely intact, with the exception of a missing section at the top of the east wall. Q has a vague memory of reading about a helicopter being involved. In addition, stone walls in the center of the house enclose the landing for a stairwell in the center of the building, around which a ring of rooms forms the ground floor. The bulk of the walls dividing this ring of rooms appear to have burned, but the corners are clear enough in the stonework. So, too, is the level of what must have been a wooden floor clear from the openings in the hearths, though they now walk on the uneven dirt of the subfloor. Q’s eye is drawn up one of the chimneys to see a second hearth opening on the second floor. At least some of the bedrooms had fireplaces, then. Q can see at least four chimneys from where he’s standing and imagines how chilly the house must have been before electric heat. Q explores the edges of the room, trying to imagine a stately country manor.

Bond is silent as he wanders the rooms, dragging a gloved hand along the stone walls. He looks thoughtful.

“They hauled most of the rubbish away and tried to secure the place,” Kincade says, breaking the silence. “There wasn’t much to salvage.”

“I’m surprised they didn’t tear it down,” Bond asserts.

“Someone came out to look at it and deemed what’s left stable. And no one knew whether you wanted to rebuild since you never—”

“Alright, yes. I’m aware I’ve been negligent in my correspondence.”

Kincade snorts his response.

“Did they wash it, too? There’s hardly any soot.”

“That was the rain,” Kincade says, looking at the sky above them.

Q wanders into the next room, noticing a passage next to a hearth. “Where does this lead?” he asks.

Bond glances over. “Out to the chapel,” he answers, stepping into the next room as if declaring the subject closed.

Q looks around, seeing Kincade shake his head. Huh.

“Kincade?” Bond calls from around a corner, his voice brittle. “Why is there a tree in here?”

Q and Kincade follow through what Q imagines might have been the kitchen — a fireplace easily large enough for cooking dominates the inner wall — to a long room lined on one side with boarded windows and a hearth at one end with a Christmas tree next to it.

“Must have been Creighton,” Kincade suggests. “He asked me to let in an appraiser for his loan application. Maybe he brought it in to help them visualize the place rebuilt.”

Q can imagine it. A fire in the hearth, lights in the tree instead of just bits of ribbon and frost. A table full of friends and food.

“Kincade? Could you please show Quain the pond? I think I will take the Rover out to see the trees.”

“I don’t mind coming with you,” Q offers, unsure of why he’s being left.

Bond shakes his head, still not turning to face them. “I won’t be long.”

“Here you are, lad,” Kincade says, handing Bond the keys to the car. “We’ll meet you back at the cottage in an hour.”

Bond exits before Q can say anything else. As he hears the engine roar to life, Q asks, “What just happened?”

Kincade sighs. “There hasn’t been a Christmas tree in this lodge since his mother died.”

 _Oh_. “Is this… I know they died in the Alps… was he not with them?”

“No, he was here. Too young to climb at that point. When I told him what happened, he hid in the old priest hole for two days. When he came out... Well, he never saw this place as his home again.” Kincade ushers Q back toward the door, calling to the dog to come with them, and locks everything back up. “Then Emma died last time he was here. I was never sure what she was to him exactly, but clearly important if he was willing to risk himself and this place to protect her.”

M, Q guesses. “She was important,” he confirms.

“Family?”

“Of a sort,” Q muses, following Kincade across the moor as the dog traipses along. “They certainly bickered like family.”

Kincade huffs a laugh. “Was she important to you as well?” Kincade asks, turning to size Q up.

He nods. “She… she gave me a place to care about, people to help.”

“That’s important,” Kincade agrees. “So,” he adds, looking Q over again. “You strike me as a bit of a city-boy.”

Q draws himself up. “I’ve been called worse.”

“Do you know how to shoot?”

“Yes. Nothing like that, though,” Q answers, nodding at the ancient hunting rifle.

“Want to try it?” Kincade asks, handing it over.

It’s heavier than it looks. “Is there a target nearby?”

“Aye, floating in the pond,” Kincade says, nodding at a flock of geese.

“Are you sure?” Q says, eyes wide.

Why not?” Kincade glances over to him. “Are you squeamish?”

“No,” Q insists. “I’ll have a go. How do I…” He raises the gun to his shoulder, looking through the sight to find the birds on the water.

“Not yet,” Kincade warns. “I’ll send Chester to flush them. When they’ve taken wing and cleared the pond’s edge, then you fire.”

“Okay.” Excitement simmers in Q’s belly.

“Let’s get a bit closer. And she pulls to the left. Watch for that.”

“Understood.”

They creep forward slowly. Even Chester seems to know how to approach, keeping his body level as his feet pick their way over the rough ground. The geese are watching them warily, now. When they are nearly to the water’s edge, and Kincade stops and nods. Q takes a shooting stance, watching the flock over the end of the barrel, his breath held.

“Go get them, boy,” Kincade whispers, giving Chester a little slap on the rump.

The dog bounds off toward the pond, and ten geese take flight, honking their alarm. Q finds one in his sight, tracks it as it gains altitude, and pulls the trigger. He lowers the gun just in time to see it drop into some reeds.

“I did it?”

“Aye lad, you did it,” he says gleefully, slapping Q on the back. “Fetch, Chester!”

“What on earth am I going to do with a goose?” Q asks, only now realizing the consequences of the shot.

Kincade just laughs. “I suppose _I’ll_ be roasting it for Christmas.”

The dog comes bounding up, dragging the goose along by the neck. “Give it here, Chester,” Kincade says, taking the goose and hoisting it over his shoulder. “Let’s get to the cottage and get this sorted, and then I’ll lay out some lunch for us.”

“Oh, we brought things,” Q remembers. “Bread and cheese and venison sausage. Up in the car.”

They glance up the hill. “I suppose I could drive us to your cottage,” Q suggests.

“He won’t appreciate that,” Kincade guesses, looking down at their muck-covered boots.

“I built her. I decide what happens with her,” Q insists. “Besides, he’s done worse.”

They climb the hill back toward the chapel where the Aston is parked. It’s still unlocked with the keys by the gearshift. They spread a blanket they find in the boot on what passes for a backseat and get the goose and the dog settled without too much mess. As Kincade gets in the passenger seat, Q looks back down toward the lodge.

“I bet it was really grand before the fire,” Q muses.

“No. But she was grand when he was a boy,” Kincade corrects.

“Was he ever happy here?”

“Are you kidding? A young lad with all these moors to explore? He was a typical only child… self-reliant and a bit lonely. But he was happy. He just doesn’t remember. All he remembers is the darkness.”

Q nods, finally understanding Bond’s neglect of the place. It makes sense, even if Q can’t imagine feeling that way himself. Shaking himself out of his reverie, he asks, “Where am I heading?”

“An Aston won’t do well on the dirt tracks. Best head back to the main road and take the long way ‘round.”

Kincade’s cottage is at the boundary between the trees and the heathered moor. The top of the lodge is just visible beyond a small rise, and in the other direction, the Land Rover is parked in the distance. Kincade invites Q in and tells him to make himself at home while he sorts the goose in the back. Q is left to explore the small parlor, lined with bookcases. Pictures of a life well-spent line the shelves, most with a woman by Kincade’s side and the hills Q’s been admiring all morning in the background. One includes a young boy holding a familiar hunting rifle, his ears too big for his head. Q grins and picks it up. The boy looks happy and proud and is holding up a pheasant. A younger Kincade stands next to him with a hand on his shoulder. Q tries to imagine a young James Bond running over the moors back and forth between the cottage and the manor, playing pirates or highwaymen or whatever adventure struck him. A far cry from his own youth trying to avoid the other children in the house. Q looks over a few more pictures, finding a couple that may be Bond’s parents — he sees a resemblance of sorts — when he hears gravel crunching under wheels and looks up to see the Land Rover go past the window toward the back of the cottage.

He goes to the kitchen and starts laying out the items they brought from the inn — the bread, the cheese — only to find that the hard venison sausage he’d seen wrapped in paper earlier is missing. It must have fallen out of the bag and ended up in the boot of the Aston. He heads out to retrieve it, opens the door, and freezes as he hears his name.

“Quain shot it,” comes Kincade’s gruff voice from around the corner of the cottage, colored with something that might be pride. “On his first try. I’ll tell you, I didn’t expect it.”

“He can be full of surprises,” Bond admits, something like fondness in his tone. Q shakes his head, sure he’s just hearing things.

“I like him,” Kincade adds. “Your young man. I’m glad you brought him up.”

“We’re not… He’s not _my_ young man.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Quite. Even if I wanted things to be different, I think I’ve wrecked my chances, there. He’s made it quite clear he thinks I’m selfish and unappreciative.”

“A good shot _and_ astute. I like him even better.”

Bond huffs a laugh. “I forgot what a grumpy old arse you are. Where is he now?”

“In the cottage. We were going to set out some lunch. I’ve got stew I can heat up, and he says you brought—”

Q pulls the door shut hard behind him to announce his presence and comes around the corner. “Oh, hello, James. I think the venison sausage fell out into the car somewhere,” he explains as he heads to the Aston. “How was your tour?”

Q opens the boot, trying to ignore the odd look Bond is giving him.

“It was fine,” Bond says after a moment. “I think I spooked a black grouse.”

“May have done,” Kincade acknowledges. “We definitely had some nesting last spring.”

“I’m surprised there’s so much cover.”

“It’s amazing what will grow once you get the deer off.”

Q finds the sausage, still wrapped in paper, and they head inside for lunch.

“So Quain,” Kincade starts when they’ve sat down to their meal. “I didn’t know Londoners could shoot like that. Where did you grow up, exactly?”

Bond’s eyebrows nearly reach his hairline, but he leans back to enjoy whatever fiction Q is going to invent on the spot. And Q could… he’s actually a decent liar. But he finds himself opting for the truth.

“I grew up in-care in Glasgow. Group homes, mostly… moving around a lot.”

Something like pity crosses Kincade’s face, and Bond’s… he’s not sure what to make of the intent expression on Bond’s face.

“I didn’t learn to shoot until I was an adult… or something approaching it, anyway. I went to university early. My first degree was in mechanical engineering, and I ended up doing a semester in a ballistics lab. I decided if I was going to be working on the theory and design of weapons, I should have some practical knowledge, as well.”

Kincade swallows a mouthful of soup. “I would not have guessed Glasgow,” he admits.

“Well, I learned pretty early at uni which accents opened doors and which ones closed them. And I’m not alone. James hardly speaks with an accent.”

“Aye, that’s true.”

They talk idly during the meal, Q asking questions about Bond’s childhood, enjoying the stories Kincade shares. Bond smiles a few times, but seems to grow quieter as the meal continues, looking outside the windows thoughtfully. Q finally turns to see what he might be looking at, notices the shadows have grown long.

“When is sunset?”

“Sooner than you think, with these hills. Clouds are coming in, too. We should think about going.”

They help tidy up after lunch, and Kincade walks them out to the car.

“Call me if you have any questions,” he says to Bond, patting him on the shoulder. “Let me know what you decide.”

Bond nods thoughtfully, hesitating for a moment before offering a small wave and getting into the driver’s seat.

Bond turns on the stereo immediately, and they make the return trip largely in silence, each lost in their own thoughts.


	5. The Tree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a tree gets lit... and so do Bond and Q.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Midrashic and Faeriechild for beta reading, hand-holding, and Scotspicking. And to all of you who are reading and commenting... you have no idea how it keeps me going.
> 
> I know this chapter is a few days later than normal, but rl, etc. The next is drafted and it's another long one, but will need some editing. I'm still not entirely sure how long this fic is going to be, but with 5 and 6 written, I'm guessing 8. 
> 
> And now that the tree is lit, I'll share the cover I made for this story, in a classic "Hallmark" style. I even found pictures of them both smiling and wearing red. The link below it goes to a post about its making.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading!

[Cover Inspiration.](https://ato-the-bean.tumblr.com/post/190435094465/highland-christmas-cover)

By the time they get back to the village, the clouds have moved in and a chill has settled into the air. They decide to buy a bottle of a ‘local specialty’ — Creighton’s Double Cask — to warm themselves up, and James ponders the label as they sip it. Aileen tries to offer them a snack of soup or tarts, but they stick to the whisky.

Which might explain the rest of the night.

They are only halfway through their first glass — and Q is just starting to think about being hungry — when Aileen and Charles come and tell them the inn is closed.

“What do you mean ‘closed’?” James asks.

“The dining room’s closing,” Charles explains, placing a “reserved” sign on their table. “Just for a bit. We’re all heading outside. You can go to your room, or you can come with us, but you can’t stay here, lads.”

“Best dress warm,” Aileen suggests. “Mercury’s dropping.”

Bond pours them each a bit more in their glass “for the road,” and they bundle up with scarves, gloves, and hats to head across the street to the park. Q’s quite certain the whole village is there, and half of them seem to recognize him from his walk yesterday and greet him by name.

Bond looks on, amazed.

They join the gathered crowd near a conifer in the middle of the park that’s at least 8 meters tall. As Q gets closer he sees baubles and stars cover the branches, mostly in red and gold. It’s still dark, but he thinks he can make out bows of tartan ribbon as well. And at the very top, of course, a large star waits to be illuminated. The children are running around and looking at the ornaments, practically squealing in delight. Q stamps his feet against the cold and is grateful for the warmth of the whisky Bond insisted they bring with them. The crowd is all chattering and laughing until a man climbs a small rise and is introduced as the head of the Rotary Club.

He raises his hands, and the crowd quiets. “I want to thank you all for coming. The village has had a good year. A prosperous year. And I’m proud of the way we came together to help each other, and those less fortunate. So as we come together to light this tree and carol, I want to remind you of the charities we supported. Over the course of the year, we’ve raised more than 1000 pounds for the local food bank—” The crowd breaks into smatterings of applause. “We’ve raised nearly 400 pounds to buy Christmas presents for in-care children in Scotland, helping deliver toys and warm clothes to more than fifty children.” The applause increases, and Q actually whoops at this announcement, startling Bond. “And of course during the floods last month, we all came together and deployed more than 3000 sandbags to keep the rising waters out of our downtown businesses.” More applause and more whooping from several of the business owners Q had met the morning before. “And so in this spirit of community, we give you the official lighting of the Carnoch Christmas Tree!” And with a flourish of his hand, not only is the 8-metre tree illuminated with fairy lights, but swags of lights stretching up and down the main street of town are lit as well.

The crowd breaks out into raucous applause, and then someone starts singing “Good King Wenceslas” and the carols officially start.

Q’s never experienced anything quite like this. In his youth, he’d lead carols at the piano, but it generally felt like forced merriment, not this upwelling of true community. He joins in the singing, and after a few carols and a few more sips of scotch, Bond does as well. Q tries not to be charmed, but Bond has a rather nice voice and seems less self-conscious the longer he sings. Q keeps finding himself looking over at the man, and more often than not, Bond catches his eye and smiles. The carols stretch on, and the whisky disappears. By the time they’re singing about “figgy pudding”, Q is wishing he had some. But he’s glad they stay, because as they finish with The Christ Child’s Lullaby and Silent Night, it starts to snow. Tiny white flakes catch the gleam of the fairy lights, and it’s _absolutely_ magical. So much better than the dreary rain of London.

There’s no announcement deeming it over, just neighbors saying goodnight and wishing each other well. Aileen and Charles usher people back toward the inn to get warm, and by the time Bond and Q enter, Charles is building up the fire and Aileen is bustling about the tables. Theirs is still waiting for them, thanks to Charles’ sign, which is fortunate considering the inn has become standing room only.

Bond pours them more scotch, Aileen takes their dinner orders, and Q is just considering asking about the manor offer when an elderly woman walks up to them.

“Little Jamie Bond, is that really you?”

Bond stares at her a moment, eyes wide, and then replies, “Mrs. McManus?”

She claps her hands together in glee. “Oh, I thought that was you. You’re the spitting image of your father, rest his soul.”

Bond shakes himself out of his amazement, and his manners return. “Mrs. McManus, this is a friend of mine from London, Mr. Quain Stewart. Quain, this is Mrs. McManus. She used to run a bakery in town and made the most delicious black bun in the world.”

Q stands and shakes her hand. “Is that so? I thought I had the most delicious black bun from the bakery down on Park just yesterday.”

“Tha’ would be my granddaughter, Elspeth, using my old recipe,” she says with a wink.

“You can still get McManus black bun in this town?” Bond asks incredulously.

“And a good many other treats you may remember,” Mrs. McManus answers. “Elspeth’s taken to delivering once a week down to Glasgow, but the pastries are never as fresh as they are right here.”

“I got a scone straight from the oven,” Q brags, “and the black bun slice was warmed through and smelled heavenly.” He’s never seen Bond looks so envious. He actually laughs out loud at the sight of it.

“She’ll be closed Christmas Day, so if you want to come round, best keep that in mind, Jamie,” she says with a grin. “I’ll let you gentlemen enjoy your meal. So glad to see you in the village, though. Don’t be such a stranger.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” Bond says as Mrs. McManus backs away with a small wave and gives Charles room to deliver their meals.

When she’s left and Bond is digging into his lamb, Q leans forward and asks, “Jamie?”

“Not another word,” James insists, pouring them both more scotch as if that will close the subject. Q cackles as he lifts his glass in salute, feeling warm and loose and unable to stop smiling.

They’ve finished their meal and are another drink in when Q overhears his name and turns to hear Charles say, “I don’ know if he plans to play tonight, but he’s got it tuned and played yesterday. Michael’s ill, so he’ll not be bringing his concertina tonight.”

“Is there a problem?” Q asks Charles as he clears their plates.

“Not really. The last few years we’ve had music after the tree lighting. Danny used to play the piano or Michael would bring his concertina and lead more carols or just play jigs. Some of the lads have been asking if we’re doing it tonight, but Michael’s sick, and you’re a guest.”

“Who’s on his fourth serving of scotch,” Q adds.

“Over hours and with a meal,” Bond protests. “It might be bad form to get behind the wheel at this point—”

“Not that it would stop you,” Q interrupts with a grin.

James smiles. “But I think you’ll be safe enough handling a piano.”

“Easy for you to say; you’ll not be embarrassed if I fumble my way through easy carols.”

“No one will mind your fumbling,” Charles insists. “Especially if the drinks keep flowing. And Aileen’s mince pies are coming out. But it’s up to you, lad. You’re a guest, after all. You can do as ye like.”

“Is there sheet music?” Q asks.

“In the bench.” And now he mentions it, Q remembers seeing the books when he went looking for the tuning kit. Q shakes his head in disbelief but has already agreed in his mind, and James can apparently see it in his face, because his expression turns to intense interest and glee. Shaking his head again, biting back a smile at Bond’s grin, Q takes his glass of scotch and walks over to the piano.

It still feels comfortable from yesterday, and the Christmas music he’s found in the bench is arranged simply enough that he can sight-read it without too much trouble. He starts easy, with “O Come All Ye Faithful” and “We Three Kings” and when his fingers have warmed up a bit and are able to handle the scale runs in the chorus, he plays “Angels We Have Heard on High”… and the whole dining room starts singing. The next thing he knows he’s getting requests and additional glasses of scotch delivered to the piano. Every so often, he looks up at where Bond is leaning back in his chair, either watching Q play or singing along, always smiling. He’s not sure he’s ever seen Bond smile so much. Something in Bond’s expression makes Q’s fingers nearly trip across the keys.

He saves his favorite for last, nearly too drunk to get through the odd chord changes in “The Holly and the Ivy,” but he’s played it so many times in his life, he could practically do it in his sleep. The room quiets to listen rather than sing, allowing him to play it with the gentleness it deserves. Something about the space in the song and the almost melancholy tone of the melody makes him think of snow, and it feels particularly appropriate with the flurries falling outside. When he finishes, there’s soft applause, and Charles stands and announces the dining room is closing for the night. The room empties out as Q finishes his scotch and doodles with the keys one-handed until Charles comes to shoo him and Bond upstairs as well.

They’re both quiet as they climb the stairs, finding the fire already warming the room. Q uses the bathroom first, washing his teeth — drinking a tall glass of water and taking some preventative paracetamol — and changing into pajamas. They switch and Q puts everything away and gets the linens out as James takes his turn in the loo. When James comes out he asks, “What are you doing?”

“It’s my turn on the chaise, isn’t it?” Q asks, spreading the blanket. He turns to find James wearing those ridiculous fleece sleep pants again. He can’t help but bite back a smile.

“I was thinking, in light of my purchase,” Bond motions to the pajama bottoms, “perhaps we could try sharing again. That chaise is _not_ comfortable.”

He’s not wrong. Q looks over at the bed, thinking this is almost certainly a bad idea, but feeling too warm and fuzzy and content to argue.

“I promise to be less of a wanker,” Bond adds, his smile self-deprecating and utterly charming.

No, this is not a good idea at all. Q should not get into that bed. He’s feeling soppy and content and likes Bond’s bare chest _far_ too much. Bond will surely realize…

Q gets into the bed.

He faces the wall, away from James’ side, and feels the bed dip as James gets in and turns off the light. They lie in silence for several moments, Q completely on edge, trying to listen for clues as to how Bond is situated, acutely aware of the heat emanating from the other side of the bed. Close, and yet with what feels like so many barriers still between them.

Bond interrupts the silence with a hushed, “I had no idea you could play like that.”

Q shrugs in the dark. “I’m not all programming and gadgets… though to be honest…” Q trails off for a moment. “It just always seemed there was some neglected, beat-up old spinnet that someone’s gran had donated everywhere I lived, and no one particularly cared if I tried to get it into shape and play it. I found books in the library about tuning pianos, basic chords, music theory. It was essentially a solitary activity, but now and again it would make people happy and… I don’t know… give me a way to fit in.”

Bond hums softly. “So it was true, what you said about the group homes?”

He shouldn’t tell Bond this. It’s classified. But he’s seen Bond’s family estate, met the man who taught him to shoot. It feels wrong to hold it back. He doesn’t _want_ to hold it back from Bond. “Yeah. It’s true.”

Bond considers that in silence, and Q feels exposed. Bond is an excellent spy. Good with human nature. He’ll put everything together. Best to tell the story himself. “I emancipated myself as soon as I could qualify for uni,” Q volunteers.

Bond shifts behind him. “Were they that bad, the group homes?”

“No. They were fine. A roof over my head and mostly warm meals. A piano I could fiddle with and a place to study. But nothing was mine. We all… we just had what we could carry. I would fix an old piano up, but it was like borrowing a book from the library. I couldn’t keep it. I just got to use it — and be grateful — and then be on my way. Uni was a bit better. I was still in a rented room, but I was so young they let me have my own. I didn’t have to share. It was the first time in my life I didn’t have to share.”

Bond is silent again for a long moment before responding, “I never had to share. Never with other children, anyway. I had to share my parents’ attention with their work — my father’s work — which took them abroad a lot. I hated being left behind, but even when I got to go, when we were visiting my mother’s family in Switzerland, I was the only child.”

On another night, Q might say something about it being obvious that James never had to share, but the confession feels too precious to snark at.

“You must think I’m an absolute pillock for wanting to sell the estate.”

“No,” Q says, surprising himself. “I mean, I did. It’s exactly the sort of thing I always fantasized about growing up… that I really did have a family and they left me a castle and there’s a chapel with generations of namesakes buried. It’s _perfect_. But I can also see that if your memories of it are bittersweet — or just bitter — it could feel like a burden. And it’s a lot to keep up — a lot of work. And not much joy in that work if it feels like an obligation.”

“An obligation to generations of dead Bonds.”

“Worse still,” Q agrees. “As much as I’d like a bunch of dead namesakes, I wouldn’t want to be beholden to them… held hostage by them.”

James shifts behind him, adjusting the pillow and settling back down.

“You sure I can’t interest you?” Bond asks. “I’m sure I could have a few tombstones made with whatever names you like.”

“Don’t tempt me,” Q chuckles. “Besides, Stewarts and Bonds buried in the same chapel? The scandal!”

Bond freezes. “You used your real last name for your alias?”

“Asks the man who introduces himself to every international crime lord and terrorist with his real name. Stewart is common enough.”

“And Quain?”

“Please. That’s just Moneypants being funny. Anyway, it’s not _my_ name. It’s just the name some nurse put on my birth certificate when they found me outside the hospital.”

“So, you don’t know who your parents were?”

Q didn’t mean to divulge this much. Damned whisky.

“It doesn’t matter,” Q says. It sounds petulant to his own ear. “I have a place I belong now.”

“True,” Bond affirms. “And a mortgage and two cats.”

“Exactly. I’m doing fine. Who needs a romantic old lodge with secret passages on a picturesque moor on the edge of a loch.”

Bond huffs a laugh, adjusting his pillow again.

“It’s nicer than I remembered,” he muses quietly. “Somehow, it seems less dreary with you there extolling its virtues.”

“Hmmm. It is rather lovely.”

“Maybe the lodge is improved by having its roof off. Brightens the place up.”

Q snorts. “Probably not so charming in this snowstorm,” he counters.

“No. We’re happy to have the inn tonight. Still, gives new meaning to ‘open floor plan’ living.”

“Terrible,” Q laughs under his breath. “Gallows humor for a building.”

Bond chuckles. “Gallows humor is the best humor. It’s the spy way.”

Q giggles softly. It’s nice, laughing in the dark like this. Almost like being in Bond’s ear on a mission, but without all the stress of saving the world or keeping Bond alive. Except Bond is _right here_. Not a world away.

As their laughter dies Q reaches behind him, in search of Bond’s hand. As their fingers tangle Q murmurs, “It really is lovely, and if it were mine, I don’t think I could let it go. But I do understand why you might want to. You don’t need my permission or anything, but… just know I see the other side. It’s like… by hanging onto it but not wanting it, you’re both in limbo: you and the estate. Letting it go... could let you buy something you actually want, and let it become part of something new. Something good that has ties to the community. I can see how that might be a good outcome.”

Bond doesn’t respond for a moment, but then squeezes Q’s hand.

“Thank you, Q.”


	6. The Village

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bond becomes reacquainted with the charms of his childhood village and buys ALL the black bun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Midrashic and Faeriechild for beta reading, hand-holding, and Scotspicking. And to all of you who are reading and commenting... you have no idea how it keeps me going. Seriously, I love them so much.
> 
> Now to the serious stuff... did you know there are Hallmark Movie Bingo Cards? Well, thanks to bladeandroses' comment on the last chapter, *I* do. And let me tell you, they are amazing.
> 
> I'm pretty sure we already have BINGO for this one: https://thekittchen.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/11/Hallmark-Bingo-1-copy.jpg
> 
> As I've said before... ALL THE TROPES!

[Cover Inspiration.](https://ato-the-bean.tumblr.com/post/190435094465/highland-christmas-cover)

Q wakes slowly, deliciously warm and rested. His pillow’s soft, and the strong chest against his back is hard and he’s so comfortable and—

He opens his eyes.

The arm wrapped around his waist is solid and the bare chest pressed up against his back is _hard_... And that’s not the only thing.

Bond… is a cuddler?

He would not have guessed that. Nor would he have guessed that he’d _ever_ wake with the firm line of Bond’s erection pressed against his arse. Not in a million, billion years would he have guessed that.

But he’s not beyond enjoying it for a moment. He closes his eyes again, savoring the feeling of Bond’s muscular form. It’s comforting as well as arousing. James’ steady breath against the nape of his neck feels like a gift of trust, but it’s also giving him shivers. The good kind. The kind that would make him press back against Bond if he weren’t sure that would be the _fastest_ way to make this end.

The kind that is making his state match Bond’s.

He tries to keep his breathing steady and not stiffen up — more than he has already — as he waits. He knows it can’t last long. This perfect moment. And even as he thinks it, Bond’s breath shifts, he freezes, and he abruptly pulls away.

“I’m sorry, Q.”

Q stretches, now that he has room to, at once missing the feel of Bond wrapped around him and somewhat steadied by the more typical — and less confusing — distance between them. “For what?”

Bond sighs. “I didn’t mean to crowd you. I don’t know what… I _never_ do that.”

“It’s fine,” Q says, twisting his head back to glimpse Bond over his shoulder.

“It’s… _fine_?” Bond asks. “But you didn’t want to share a bed. I really _can_ take ‘no’ for an answer, Q.”

“No, I mean…” Q combs his fingers through his hair, searching for words. He is not good in the morning. “I just mean that I know it doesn’t mean anything. We’re healthy males. We wake up like _that_. I’m not going to take it the wrong way.”

James props himself up on a hand, getting a better view of Q’s face… tilting his head as if trying to work out a puzzle. He looks as confused and disheveled as Q feels, though without any of the crazy fringe. “Q? Are you under the impression that I don’t find you attractive?”

Q snorts. “Yes. Of course.” He feels a giggle bubble up. “I am _not_ your type.”

Bond scrubs a hand down his face. “This explains so much,” he mutters. “And you came to this conclusion how?”

Q twists his torso to look at Bond more fully. “Because you only fall for women, to start with. Which I’m decidedly _not_.”

“You’ve _heard_ me with men,” James says incredulously.

“On a mission. That’s not the same. I mean, you ran off with a beautiful woman just a year ago.”

“That’s true,” James agrees, sighing. “Though I came back in short order.”

“And you tease me _all_ the time,” Q continues. “Hate my clothes. I mean, I’m glad we’re becoming friends or… whatever it is... but no, _attraction_ isn’t what I think of when I consider how you… consider me.” Q shakes his head to clear it. It still feels muddled from all the drink last night, though he’s pleased they slept long enough that it isn’t throbbing. “I’m… handy in your ear. Fun to banter with. But not…” Q waves his hand, as if that’s enough to encompass all he’s not.

Bond just stares for a moment. “Right,” he finally says. He nods and moves to the far side of the bed, sitting up facing away from Q. Q can’t deny himself a quick peek at that strong, muscular back. Bond may not find him attractive, but he’s not going to deny himself of a look at Bond’s near-perfect physique. “It’s just that…I _never_ do that,” Bond continues. “I usually warn my bed partners not to touch me when I’m sleeping, but you made it clear that wouldn’t be a worry…” Bond trails off, and Q remembers their hands slipping apart last night before he’d drifted to sleep. “My subconscious prefers to be isolated...” He shakes his head, turning back to Q. “Out of curiosity, what else do you think you know about my ‘type’?”

Q yawns and runs his fingers through his fringe again. “Hmmm. Beautiful. Lithe. Smart. Probably not a pushover — you like to argue. A bit dangerous.” He shrugs and looks over at Bond. “Am I close?”

“You have no idea,” Bond says, standing. He moves toward the door to the loo, and in doing so turns so that Q sees him in profile. Including the outline of his still substantial erection through the Santa emoji fleece pants. “You know, Q,” he says at the door. “For someone as smart as you are, I’m beginning to think you don’t see yourself clearly.” And with that, he gives Q a long, lingering look that makes Q’s mouth go dry. Then he disappears behind the loo door.

Bugger.

If the giggles had helped Q’s _situation_ a bit, that look brought his hard-on back with a vengeance. Q lets his head fall back onto the pillow, trying to process that conversation without the benefit of caffeine as the shower starts in the next room. Trying to make sense of the heat in Bond’s eyes as he'd looked Q over. It almost seemed as though Bond were suggesting that he found Q—

A groan emanates from the loo. Not a painful one; a pleasurable one. A lustful one. And Q is suddenly _viscerally_ aware that Bond is very likely wanking just on the other side of the door. Possibly thinking of _him_ , though that seems preposterous. His own cock twitches in response, and every fantasy he’s ever had about Bond rushes to mind, making him impossibly harder. He’s frozen in indecision about what to do. Is it right to wank in a bed one is sharing with a colleague… friend? How is that even a thing he might consid—

Another sound from Bond has him reaching for the tissues and pushing his hands down his tartan sleep pants before he even realizes he’s made the decision. Sod it. This feels good. It’s been bloody days since he’s had a release, all the while spending inordinate amounts of time with the perfect epitome of masculinity, always presumed to be completely out of his league, but now somehow open and charming and... He remembers feeling Bond’s strong chest against him, the warmth of that bare skin, the breath against his neck, that long, hard cock against his arse, and the thought that James had sought him out in his sleep, wrapped himself around Q and—

He comes with a groan, nearly whiting out. And in the haze of afterglow realizes the shower is no longer running.

His breath is still nowhere near normal when the loo door opens again and Bond comes in from the steamy room with a towel wrapped low on his hips, skin clean and glistening, looking relaxed and not _at all_ like a sweaty mess of a boffin with a sticky wad of tissues hidden down his pants.

“It’s all yours,” Bond says, and Q flees into the relative privacy of the washroom, realizing the fact that it smells like Bond and sex is not going to alleviate his confusion. He tries to put the whole mess out of his mind and concentrate on getting clean.

Except for this. Yesterday Bond told Kincade that even if he wanted Q to be his ‘young man’, he’d blown it. And Mr. I-only-wear-bespoke-suits had bought the most ridiculous pair of sleep pants Q had ever seen just to make Q feel more comfortable. And last night James had watched Q all evening, and though Q took James’ smiles as merriment, he can’t deny that the attention made his heart skip occasionally. And before that, in the branch, Q had noticed Bond watching him. He always refused to believe it was appreciatively, but now...

As the water rinses away the soap from Q’s body, he begins to suspect that perhaps he’s misinterpreted a few of Bond’s actions over their time together. Presumed Bond’s intentions. Made assumptions.

And that bears consideration.

The room is empty when he gets done, for which he’s grateful, since he hadn’t brought a change of clothes with him. He dresses for the cold again, unsure of their plans, and heads down to the lobby.

He finds Bond by the front desk, sipping a cup of coffee and chatting with Aileen, who is marking a paper calendar in pencil.

“So, two more days, Mr. Bond?”

“For now, if that works for you. Just kick me out if you have another guest coming.”

“No, people don’t like to pay extra for the _en suite_. We’re full otherwise, but that room is yours if you want it. Now,” she says, smiling as Q as he comes down the stairs, “can I interest you boys in some breakfast? Kitchen’s still open…”

Bond turns and faces Q guardedly. “I’m actually feeling some nostalgia for warm black bun. I don’t want to speak for Quain… I’d be happy for his company, but he may prefer a hot breakfast on this snowy morning.”

Q feels inexplicably shy… which is crazy. He’s been bantering with Bond and giving him hell for years, but he feels himself blushing as he answers, “Black bun will be warm enough, I think.”

Bond’s tentative smile makes something in Q’s stomach flip.

“Well, maybe you’d be up for a brisk walk to the bakery,” James says, pausing by the door to put on his gloves.

Q joins him, taking his hat and coat off the rack.

“Oh, look!” Aileen cries. “You’re under the mistletoe!”

Q looks up to find an addition to the entry decor. He glances at Bond, who looks absolutely like a deer in the headlights.

“Go on,” Aileen encourages. “You’ve gotten past your little domestic. It’s tradition!”

Q can feel his blush deepen, but turns toward Bond uncertainly. Bond seems equally flustered, unwilling to initiate any movement toward Q before seeing Q move toward him. They come together awkwardly, bumping noses and eventually accomplishing a kiss — a peck, really — on the corner of their mouths before ducking their heads back and glancing at Aileen.

She claps her hands in joy and waves them off.

“Well,” Q says as they get safely onto the porch with the door closed behind them, “I don’t know about you, but I’m experiencing PTSD flashbacks of visiting my first boyfriend’s grandparents when I was 15. The relationship did not survive the ordeal.”

Bond snorts a laugh and motions for him to go down the steps first, but doesn’t comment.

By the looks of it, easily ten centimeters of snow fell the night before. It glistens in the pale sunlight, making the entire village gleam and shine — looking like even more of a postcard than it had before. It crunches under their feet as they turn up the lane, Bond quietly following Q’s lead until they’re within a block of the bakery and he suddenly appears more attentive, as if he recognizes the buildings now.

The familiar bell chimes when they enter the bakery. “Mr. Stewart!” greets Elspeth when she sees them. “You’re in luck. Scones have just come out of the oven and are cooling in the back.” She slides a tray of biscuits into the glass case and closes it. “And who have y’brought with you?”

“Bond. James Bond,” James says reaching out to shake her hand and getting his glove smeared in flour.

“Ah, Mr. Bond! Gran said to keep an eye out for you,” she remarks with a grin. “Says I should tell you we’re all out of black bun.”

“Are you really?” The disappointment is clear in his voice. Q can barely keep from rolling his eyes.

“Nah, she just said I should tell y’ that,” she says, sending a wink to Q. “I held one aside. So, how many slices can I get you?”

“Oh, at least two each, I’d say,” Q suggests, glancing at Bond with a smirk. “Warmed, please. And tea for me. Coffee for you, James?”

Bond gives him a startled look. “Please.”

Q leans his elbows against the counter as Bond bends down to peruse the sweets in the glass cabinet.

“Did you get to see much of the village the other day, Mr. Stewart?” Elspeth asks as she pulls their order together.

“Here in town I did,” Q answers, talking a little louder as she ducks into the back. “Walked all the way up the promenade and back down. Saw the sunken garden, for what that’s worth this time of year. Saw the docks. Then I ran out of time. Didn’t get up to the cairns, and it looks like it would be an unpleasant hike today.”

“Aye, it will be chilly on the mountain,” Elspeth agrees.

“Do you run this place on your own?” Bond asks, straightening up.

“Aye. Well, I’ve a few helpers, and my younger sister comes in when she’s up from uni, but my older sister left the village about a year ago, so it’s me in charge. See, the bakery… it’s really only a living for one. I’m upstairs with Gran. Fiona was at mum’s and working in the pub, but when Harris went for the community buyout, they started promoting traditional crafts… and, well, she’s a good weaver, see? She’s gone out to make a go of it… got additional training from one of the local weavers and is supplying Harris Tweed and doing some side projects for a small shop up there. Even sold some things on the internet, now that they have proper connectivity up there. It’s quite a do.” A bell rings in the kitchen. “Oh, just a mo, lads; let me get your black bun from the warmer.” She ducks into the back.

Q takes his phone out and makes a note to check on later. “Have you heard of that before?” Q asks James.

He shrugs. “Harris Tweed? Of course.”

“No, I mean — oh, that smells lovely,” Q says as Elspeth returns with their two plates of warm black bun, setting them down on a small table by the window and encouraging Q and Bond to sit.

“This is Gran’s recipe, and you know it is lovely. She’s shown me all her tricks. Keeping the traditions up. We’re small, but we’ve got the memory of how to do things right, you know? Been shipping once a week to Glasgow — you should see the shite that passes for Scottish sweets down there.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Q says, taking a seat at the small table. “Do you have a website? Would that help you?”

“Ah, I don’t know. We get some tourists in, and we get our orders from Glasgow, but mostly we’re a small business for the locals. Same as the pub. Same as the distillery, really.”

“Creighton Stewart’s distillery? What is it… Creagattin? You know him then?”

“Oh, aye. We went to primary school together. Everyone here knows everyone, Mr. Bond, _and_ their business. That’s village life, for good or for ill.”

“Hmm.” Bond takes their drinks and brings them to the table. “I suppose the whole village knows that he’s trying to make an offer on Skyfall, then.”

“Oh, aye, tha’s been the talk of the town for a bit now. We’re all rooting for him. Mind you, we all grew up with Skyfall being a bit apart, you know? Not really part of us. But with Creighton’s enterprise, and the venison being sold in the village… it feels different now. Like, having some outsider take it over would feel wrong… maybe disrupt things we care about. Not that you can’t do what you want with your own property, Mr. Bond, but if we all had a vote, see? We’d rather it stay friendly. Now, how’s that black bun?”

“Delicious,” Bond admits. “Just as good as I remember. Your gran must be proud.”

She beams.

“So, Stewart’s a good man, then?” Bond asks, sipping his coffee.

“Creighton?” She looks aside and Q thinks she’s blushing a bit. “Aye, he’s a good man. Your land will do well in his hands. I spoke to him about it last night and he’s quite excited. Were you at the tree lighting?”

Q turns to Bond and raises an eyebrow.

“We were,” James acknowledges with a smile, as if he, too, caught Elspeth’s blush. “Quite the event. I don’t remember that from my childhood.”

“No, it’s only been going for... five years, maybe? Since Gordon took over the Rotary.”

“Is that the man who spoke in the beginning?” Q asks. “I wondered who he was.”

“Tha’s Gordon Macintyre. He’s sort of… well, we don’ have a magistrate or mayor, so Gordon steps in when we need someone like that. The Rotary does all sorts of things in the village. Community stuff. Emergency response. Always has. But Gordon... he just… gets things done, you know? Like the tree. Calls a community meeting and the next thing you know we can’t imagine the village without it.”

“That’s a rare talent,” James says, sitting back and sipping his coffee.

Elspeth just shrugs. “I think it even made the Rotary write-up in the museum.”

“Is that open today?” Bond asks.

“Aye, it should be, but not for another hour or two. Those history types are lazy gits,” she says with a wink, excusing herself to go back into the kitchen.

They finish their breakfast and pay up, Bond ordering essentially all the black bun Elspeth has left.

“I normally sell it by the slice. It’ll be a bit dear.”

“It will indeed,” Bond says, handing over his credit card.

“I’m throwing in a hot scone for Mr. Stewart as well,” Elspeth says. “On the house.”

Bond looks at Q and smirks. “You’ve charmed her,” he says quietly.

There’s a softness in his tone that Q finds… compelling. He feels the same shyness he felt coming down the stairs earlier. The same fluster he felt when James’ dry lips touched the corner of his mouth, almost too quickly to detect. “I merely said her scones were the most delicious I’ve had. It’s just the truth.”

Bond’s smile widens, but Elspeth comes back with their receipt and a bag of baked goods before he can say anything. They leave the warmth of the shop for the snowy lanes of the village. Q tears off a piece of the scone and pops it in his mouth then breaks off another piece for Bond.

“It won’t be nearly as good once it cools,” he justifies as Bond accepts it. By the time they’re back to the main road, they’ve finished the scone and are walking with their hands in their pockets against the chill — but close enough that they bump shoulders. Q expects Bond to steer them back toward the inn, but instead, they wander the length of the village in a slow, aimless sort of way, Q offering bits of information that he’d gleaned in his previous exploration, and Bond offering bits of memory from his childhood: a favorite sweet shop, a grocer that’s no longer open, a place where the sheep would often come down to the road.

They wander into shops, many of the shopkeepers greeting Q, much to Bond’s amusement. A few of the older ones actually remember Bond as a child, and comment that they hadn’t realized Quain was with him. And Bond never contradicts the assumption that they are together, as he had with Kincade. Q tells himself that it’s because none of these people really know Bond and he doesn’t feel compelled to go into detail about their personal lives. But he also catches the smiles James offers when glancing over at him. And it makes his stomach flip a bit every time Bond holds a door for him or offers him a contemplative little look. He finds himself standing a bit closer to Bond than he normally would and is pleased when Bond doesn’t move away. Not that the man has any sense of personal space… Q really shouldn’t read anything into it. But it _feels_ meaningful. Like Bond is trying to show him something or convince him of something.

Ridiculously, it feels like a first date… but one which — out of some strange necessity — must be at an awkward family reunion full of cousins twice removed and elderly aunts. Bond chats up _every_ shop owner, asking about the village, how long they’ve been open, which family member ran the shop before they took things over… as if he feels suddenly negligent because Q briefly knew more about the village of his youth than he did. They buy little tidbits everywhere. Q suspects James is actually doing his Christmas shopping, and James makes a point of telling Q that the ladies’ wool scarf is for Eve, as if he were worried Q might think he has some other woman to buy for.

“Well, you’ve charmed the whole village, it seems,” Bond says as they leave a bookshop where Q’s made several purchases and head back toward the inn.

“ _I_ have? You’re going to be the talk of the town tonight. Prodigal son returning, and all that.”

“Hardly,” Bond says, as they cross the street.

It’s shadier over here, out of the sun. Q adjusts his scarf as he comments, “Mrs. MacDougal got positively misty.”

“She liked my mother,” Bond remembers a bit wistfully. “Was kind to her, despite the fact she was an outsider.”

From Switzerland, Q remembers.

“They met when Father was traveling for work, and he brought her ‘home’. This little village had no idea what to make of her, really, but she loved it. Found a way to fit in.”

“I imagine that was—” Q abruptly slips on a patch of ice on the kerb and grasps at James’ arm to steady himself.

“Q?”

Q tries to get his feet back under himself, but the books are heavy and throwing off his center of gravity. He slips again, twisting toward Bond and grasping his other arm, eyes wide.

“Q. Hold still, or you’ll take us both down.” It’s said with as much authority as James can muster through his laughter.

“I’m not going to take us down. I’m very—”

“Just let me—” Bond reaches out for the wall.

And with a squeal that definitely did _not_ come from Q, they are arse over teakettle, and Q finds himself sprawled out on _top_ of Bond.

“Oh my god, I’m _so_ sorry!”

“It’s fine,” Bond says through a breathless laugh. A laugh that actually puffs at Q’s fringe. That’s how close their faces are. Q looks up to see Bond’s blue eyes, crinkled and smiling at him.

“Are you okay?” Q asks.

“I’m quite comfortable,” Bond insists, and Q realizes that Bond’s arms are around him, holding him in place — keeping him from hitting the sidewalk himself, most likely… agile bloody spy. And he’s grinning like a loon.

“I think you’ve knocked your head,” Q chides.

“I didn’t.”

Bond is still grinning at him. Still not moving. And christ, he smells good. _Really_ good. Q suddenly feels the urge to just kiss him right here on the kerb in the snow… and oddly he thinks Bond may _welcome_ it.

“You lads alright?” comes a voice from a nearby shop.

“Fine,” calls Bond, raising an eyebrow at Q.

“Nothing bruised by my ego,” Q mutters as he reaches for a rail, offering Bond his other hand to help him up.

James is still smiling.


	7. The Dilemma

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bond wants things that are likely mutually exclusive… and Q.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't even begin to tell you all how grateful I am to have Faeiriechild and Midrashic as betas. Faerie has taught me so much about Scotland, only potions of which make it into the actual story, and Mid is so generous with her time in helping me rework the language of the story until it's doing what I need it to do. I really adore both of them, and they've made the story so much better than it would have been.
> 
> Thanks to all of you who are reading and commenting. The all-caps flailing is particularly enjoyable, as well as The Lists.
> 
> We're getting near the end... only one or two chapters after this (really, I don't know).

[Cover Inspiration.](https://ato-the-bean.tumblr.com/post/190435094465/highland-christmas-cover)

When they’ve righted themselves, gotten clear of the patch of ice, and brushed the snow off their clothes, James says, “Well, that was exciting.”

“Go on and laugh,” Q says a bit grumpily. “But I’ll have you know I’m not generally clumsy.”

“I’m not laughing at you, Q, I’m—”

“Laughing next to me? And before you were laughing under me?” Q finishes, shaking his head ruefully.

“I’m laughing _with_ you. And I’m well aware that you’re generally quite graceful, in your way.”

Q doesn’t know what to say to that.... the idea that Bond has watched Q enough to know how he moves. Nor what to do with Bond’s fond look.

As if realizing Q needs to be rescued from his own thoughts, Bond asks, “Shall we go see if the museum is open?”

“Absolutely,” Q responds, grateful for the change of subject and hoping he isn’t actually blushing.

They drop their purchases at the inn and pick up the car.

The roads are clear now, so the Aston has no problem with the short drive up the valley to the museum. They’ve gained a bit of elevation, with the loch and the village still in view below them and the snow-capped peaks of the highlands enclosing the narrowing valley up to the pass. Q appreciates the general splendor: the white snow contrasting with the vibrant blue skies peeking through clouds, the occasional patches of dark trees cutting through the white. It feels a million miles from his small flat in London. A world away from canyons between city skyscrapers or the stress of spywork.

They park the car beside a small white-washed building on the side of the road. Q gets out of the car and takes a few pictures with his phone as Bond locks up and walks over to join him.

“This was here when I was a boy,” Bond says. “I’d forgotten, but I remember now that I see it.”

“Was it a museum then?” Q asks, putting his phone back in his pocket.

“I think so, but I don’t remember much. I wouldn’t have been much impressed if it was just a bunch of historic documents. I was a bit obsessed with Vikings back then, convinced that there was some old sword to be found on the moors of Skyfall, despite it not being particularly near the coast.”

Q can’t help grinning as he imagines that boy he saw in the pictures in Kincade’s cottage searching for Viking treasure. Bond sees his expression and must guess what he’s thinking, because he rolls his eyes as they make their way to the front and once again opens the door for Q.

An older gentleman looks up from the book he’s reading behind the counter as they come in, greeting them gruffly. Bond puts a 20-pound note in the donation box and they look around.

The walls are covered with old photos. Maps chart the history of settlement starting as early as legends of ancient Celtic heroes. There’s a large section on the whisky history in the area, with pictures of distilleries long shut and cabinets full of old bottles and labels. Q leaves Bond reading a placard explaining the origins of different family recipes and examples of different stills and wanders into the next room. This one has a history of battles, from the earliest Viking raids to the battles between warring clans. Pictures of monuments and fragments of a broken Celtic cross accentuate the message of loss.

Q largely passes by a section on weaving and local tartans, opting to read about the history of land ownership and local wildlife. From the time of the forced evictions and Highland Clearances that made way for large-scale sheep farming to the decline of that industry and the divvying up of the lands in the late 19th century into large sporting estates for absentee wealthy Englishmen, often the Highlander crofters were left without much control over their surroundings or their economies. In the 20th century, it began to turn around, with legislation and government grants allowing for communities to “buy out” their former landlords. A map shows the community buyouts to date, as well as existing estates.

Much of the glen and one steep side of the valley was bought by the National Trust for Scotland in the 1930s. There’s a 50,000-acre Glenway Estate that holds another portion of the valley, and then on the west side, reaching into a headland and high lochs, is the Skyfall Estate. Q had no idea it was so large. _Much_ larger than the view from the stone gate would suggest, though nowhere near as large as Glenway. There are pictures here, too. Etchings of the mountains dating back to the 18th century, an old sepia photo of Skyfall Lodge from the 1860s, and some much more recent photos, relatively speaking, of hunting groups at the lodge in the early 20th century. The last one, taken in 1986, shows three men standing in front of the lodge holding hunting rifles. Q recognizes a young Kincade and the man that must be Bond’s father, but he doesn’t know the third. Reading the notation beside the photo, Q is surprised to find a familiar name.

“James?” he calls softly. He’s still studying the photo as he feels Bond approach and stand next to him. James gasps his recognition, softly enough that even Q barely hears it, close as he is, and Q can’t help it. He tentatively reaches for James, puts a hand low on his back. He bites his lip as James startles again and turns to look searchingly into Q’s face.

Everything that’s been building between them all day… the last two days… hell, maybe since they climbed into the car to come north… it all hangs between them for a moment. Bond’s expression is still guarded, still questioning. And Q doesn’t know any answers, except that he suspects James has felt as alone as Q has, and he doesn’t want James to feel that anymore. Doesn’t want to feel it himself. Is unable to remember why he’s been resisting this attraction for as long as he has. Because this man — with his love of black bun and his appreciation of the village and a visible warmth toward his groundskeeper and innkeep is _not_ the arrogant front Q’s seen at work. And if Q is honest with himself, he’s suspected that for a long time.

“Q?” James asks, hesitantly reaching an arm around Q’s shoulders.

When Q’s only answer is to flatten his hand against James’ back, James reaches out and touches Q’s jaw gingerly, caressing it more surely as Q’s gaze remains steady and open.

“Q,” James whispers, leaning in. And Q can’t breathe.

“You gents finding everything okay,” the old man asks as the chair in the other room scrapes. They jump apart and turn to the doorway just as the old man clears it.

“Ah, I do have a question,” James answers, recovering first, but dropping a hand back on Q’s shoulder as if unwilling to let too much distance come between them now that it’s finally dissolved. “This man,” James asks, pointing at the figure identified as Charles Macintyre standing beside his father.

“That’s Andrew Bond, the old owner of Skyfall Lodge. It’s—”

“I know these two,” James says impatiently. “But this one. Charles. Would that be a relative of Gordon Macintyre?”

“Aye, it’s his father,” the man says, finally looking at James’ face. “Are you—”

“James Bond,” James acknowledges. “But my memories of this time…” James shakes his head.

“Mr. Bond.” The man straightens up. “Your father and the late Mr. Macintyre were great friends. After your parents died, he wrote a lengthy memoriam in the local paper. I have a copy somewhere. They sent a copy to Albert and invited you to visit, but Albert was keeping a pretty tight hold of you. Then you were sent away to live with another family, we heard. And after that we didn’t hear much until the old place burned, I’m afraid.”

“I see,” James responds quietly.

There’s an awkward pause, into which the old man finally says, “If you give me a minute, Mr. Bond, I’ll just go dig that article out of the archive for you.”

James nods, and the old man totters off.

Q tentatively slides his arm around James’ waist again, and they stand together looking at the old photos. It feels… solid. Both the man whose side he’s flush up against and the history they’re both reading. The pictures. The evidence that James is _from_ here and he’s sharing it with Q. After a moment, James whispers, “I have this whole history here that I’ve just... buried.”

Q nods and tightens his arm.

“It wasn’t all bad.”

“No. Looks like you had people who cared about you. Even if it was from a distance.”

James nods thoughtfully. There’s something wistful in his expression that Q isn’t used to seeing. Bond reaches up to touch the old sepia photo of the lodge and says, “Well, maybe I can do right by them in the end and—” Ringing interrupts that thought.

James reaches into his pocket to retrieve the phone and answers, “Bond here. Yes, hello.”

There’s a long silence as James listens, slipping away from Q and adjusting his grip on the phone to hear better. There are several ”I sees” and “I understands” before James’ expression becomes rather grim.

“Thank you for letting me know.”

James hangs up the phone and slips it back into his pocket, turning to face Q.

“What? What’s happened?”

Bond sighs. “Creighton Stewart did not get his financing — at least not the amount he requested. He can’t make me an offer on the estate.”

With a disappointed look back at the historical photos of Skyfall, James shakes his head and turns to leave the room, waving Q off when he starts to follow.

Fuck.

He hears the front door of the museum open and close.

“Did Mr. Bond leave?” asks the old man as he returns from the back room with a yellowed newspaper.

“Ah… he had to take a call. Needed better reception,” Q lies. “I can take the article to him.”

“Let me just make a copy.”

Q follows him to the front counter, where a small desktop copier takes several minutes to warm up.

“You’re friends with Mr. Bond?” the man asks brusquely.

“I am,” Q answers, confident about it for the first time.

“And he knows Gordon?”

“No,” Q answers. “We just heard him speak at the tree lighting last night.” Q considers for a moment and adds, “But I wonder if he’d appreciate talking to him, now that we know his father knew James’. You wouldn’t have a phone number for him, would you?”

“For Gordon? Any phone box will have that. Here.” He reaches below the counter and pulls out an honest-to-god phone book. Made of actual paper. Q can’t remember the last time he’s seen one.

Q quickly finds the number and creates a contact in his phone. “Ta,” he says, handing it back and noticing the time. “One last thing. Can you recommend a place to eat? Maybe outside the village, just for a change?”

Grey eyebrows furrow for a moment. “Let me call the ski lodge and see if their kitchen is open.”

Q leaves a moment later with directions to the ski area, a crisp copy of the newspaper article, and the hope that Bond has had his moment and is ready for company. He walks up to the Aston silently, finding James leaning against the boot, and hands him the article. Bond takes it and reads it over, sighing unhappily, as Q leans against the boot beside him and waits.

He doesn’t have to wait long. “I let my imagination run off a bit,” Bond admits.

“How so?”

“I thought about somehow being connected to the distillery after I retire. That if my old estate were its new home, I would get to come in and do special tastings, or help with their experiments. Not full time, but… I can’t be a spy and assassin forever.” James looks down at his gloves and flicks off some imagined speck of dust.

“No, you can’t,” Q acknowledges, though he’s surprised that Bond expects to retire. Most of the Double-ohs seem to be intent on going out with a bang. Quite literally. “You still have the other offer,” Q reminds him.

Bond shakes his head.

“That bad? Are they not offering what it’s worth?”

“The money is fine… more than I can use, really, even after I buy a place in the Bahamas,” Bond says, bringing something up on his phone and handing it to Q. Map plan drawings of a proposal. It takes Q a moment to get his bearings and zoom in, but then he’s horrified. “They’ll tear down Kincade’s cottage to make room for a new warehouse?”

“It’s near the road,” Bond replies, “and they won’t have need of a gamekeeper.”

“They’re going to put a modern building on the Lodge site?”

Bond just hums an assent.

“And… no! They _can’t_ make the chapel a tasting room. M died there! That’s sacred gro—”

“I know, Q.”

“What right would th—”

“They’d own it!” Bond says sharply. He softens his voice before continuing. “They could do what they want. It’s old, but it’s not important enough or in good enough condition to qualify for a historic registry. They… they could do what they want,” he repeats.

Q looks back down at the phone. “You could put a stipulation in the sale agreement,” he suggests.

“Without another offer on the table, I wouldn’t have much leverage.”

Q huffs in irritation at the situation and hands the phone back. “So what are you going to do?” he asks quietly.

“I suppose I’ll have to keep it,” James sighs, looking bleakly around the valley. “I can’t let this village go the way of Cladich, and I can’t let them…” he makes a frustrated little sound in the back of his throat. “I shouldn’t care. I’ve always said I hated it. It’s just a pile of old rocks, but—”

“It’s okay to care,” Q insists, grasping at Bond’s gloved hand. “And it’s much more than a pile of rocks.”

“It used to be,” James says, looking at their hands. “I never saw much future in it, but…” He looks up at Q’s face searchingly.

Q can scarcely breathe again. He feels as if James is looking through him… into him. Seeing all his long tamped-down desires and dreams. Not just relating to James himself, though he senses those are abundantly clear now, but other things. His need to be _seen_ , despite working in an agency that requires him to remain unseen. His desire to be _known_ , despite the fact that he’s spent most of his life nearly anonymous amongst crowds, first of in-care kids, then uni students, then long banks of coders before M spotted him and scooped him up. His longing for a place that goes beyond a mortgage and two cats...

He doesn’t know how to broach any of that, so he turns it back on Bond. “What do you want, James?” he asks quietly.

Bond’s expression turns almost pained as he squeezes Q’s hand.

“Not…” Q bites his lip and fiddles with James’ hand. “Whatever might happen between us,” he says quietly, “is not dependent on what you decide to do with the estate. Nor should it inform it.”

“But it’s not completely unrelated,” Bond protests quietly after a moment. “The fact that you seemed to love it so is part of what made me look at it with fresh eyes. Part of what makes me torn.”

“Torn between what?”

“Three things that are each probably impossible independently, much less together,” James responds, his tone frustrated. “I want to be part of something after I retire that’s stimulating and interesting and less likely to get me killed than what I do now. If it helps keep the village intact and healthy as well, so much the better. I really would like to not be responsible for so much land… and have the means to buy something somewhere warm for when I just can’t take the rain anymore. And I find that… in spite of both of those desires requiring me to sell the estate, I’m loath to let it out of my control. Walking amongst the ruins and remembering the Lodge… oddly enough, it wasn’t really depressing. It almost felt like… without all that moulding old wood, I could see the potential again. See the parts that endured and will continue to do so, and where something modern could be incorporated.”

“Yes,” Q agrees. “Like London, with its mix of ancient and current.”

“Exactly. Or rebuilding the DB-5 so it has all the grace of an older era, but all the advantages of the modern one. Maybe it _could_ be my home again, even if only part-time.”

“That sounds perfect,” Q whispers.

“It would require money,” James insists.

“You _have_ money. The insurance settlement.”

“Is it enough?”

Q falters. “Not to rebuild the lodge and buy a place somewhere warm,” he admits. “You might have to choose. But you could still allow Creighton to harvest for the distillery, and…”

He trails off, several bits of information clicking into place at once. He tries to remember the legal structure of the estate from the time that he had to file the paperwork to cancel the sale. He’s almost sure…

“The estate isn’t non-separable, is it?”

“What?” Bond asks.

Q’s standing now, sorely tempted to pace. “The Skyfall Estate. It’s not inseparable… there’s nothing in its documentation that prevents you from splitting it, is there?”

“No. My solicitor once suggested I do that, but I was still adamantly ignoring the whole thing.”

Q turns to face Bond. “You should call Creighton.”

“What...Why?”

“So he doesn’t get so drunk in his disappointment that he can’t drive to the ski lodge.”

“The ski lodge… Q, what are you on about?”

“I have an idea, but it’s going to take some coordination. I’ll explain in the car — actually I’d better drive. You call Creighton… tell him to bring some of the scotch. Then call Gordon Macintyre. I’ll send you his contact,” Q says, texting the contact he’d just created to James’ phone. “We’ll go get a table at the lodge. I already have directions.”

James is still sitting on the back of the car, dumbfounded.

Q feels giddy enough in his inspiration that he nearly giggles at James’ confusion. Biting his lip, Q steps up between James’ knees, bringing his fingers up to touch the close-cropped hair at James’ temples. James’ expression softens and his eyes light with something that might be hope. “Listen to your Quartermaster,” Q says, smiling and stroking James’ temple. “I have an idea. If it doesn’t work, we can go back to moping, but if it does…” He licks his lips, drawing James’ gaze from his eyes down to his mouth. And _god_ , he just wants James to look at him like that… forever, really.

It feels easier than giving in to gravity to lean in and brush his lips softly against James’ mouth.

James makes a desperate sound in the back of his throat and grasps the nape of Q’s neck to hold him in place as he surges to his feet and deepens the kiss. And it’s _fucking_ glorious. Better than anything Q has ever imagined, and he’s imagined quite a lot. Q finds himself sinking into it, held steady by a strong arm around his back and fingers tangled in his curls. He finds his own arms wrapping around James’ back and his mind going deliciously blank, so that he’s actually confused when James finally pulls back, breathlessly keeping their brows together, and says, “I’ll make the calls.”

Right. His plan. Q grins as he gives James one last kiss and takes the keys to the Aston.


	8. The Christmas Miracle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the village experiences a Christmas Miracle of its own making, and Q and James experience a personal one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who are Local Hero fans you may recognize that the name of my Rotary Club leader/unofficial mayor, Gordon Macintyre, is a mashup of two characters from that film. This is entirely intentional. You may also notice that I outright steal a bit of dialogue from the aurora borealis scene nearly directly from that film (though the original scene is less romantic and *much* funnier). For those of you who don't know what I'm talking about, please go watch Local Hero. It's a wonderfully quirky and lovely film. If you need another reason, it has a very young Peter Capaldi, aka the 12th Doctor.
> 
> I think there will be one chapter after this. As ever, many thanks to the marvelous @faeriechild and @midrashic for their beta work and encouragement, and to all of you who have taken the time to read and share your thoughts.

[Cover Inspiration.](https://ato-the-bean.tumblr.com/post/190435094465/highland-christmas-cover)

“Do you know what’s happening?” Q overhears as he approaches the table at the back of the Village Community Hall to get a drink of water.

“No,” a ginger-haired man answers the woman next to him, “but I heard that Creighton didn’t get his financing. Maybe they’re going to break it to us that Skyfall Estate is going to be sold to Diagleon.”

“Ugh, right before Christmas? That's gonna put a damper on the holiday.”

He shrugs. “Better to know, I suppose,” he replies with a sigh.

The whole crowd is like that: speculating, nervous, irritated at being called in for an emergency village meeting, but too worried to miss it. Q gets two glasses of water and returns to the first row, where Bond is sitting with Creighton. The two of them are thick as thieves now, Bond grilling Creighton on the details of his plans for the distillery and Creighton delighted with the attention. Q sits down beside James and offers him one of the waters.

“Ta, Quain,” Bond says quietly, giving him a fond look. “How does it seem back there?”

“Crowded,” Q replies. “And tense. The natives are restless.”

“They want to get back to their families,” Creighton offers. “Speaking of, if this works, Mr. Stewart, I’m going to have to get you something with the family tartan as thanks.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” Q says, looking aside awkwardly. We’re not _really_ clansmen.” When Bond raises an eyebrow and Creighton furrows his, Q adds, “I only mean, it’s an adoptive name, of sorts.”

Creighton leans his elbows on his knees and looks at Q thoughtfully. “Well, that just means someone in the clan claimed you as one of us. I’m afraid you won’t be able to talk us out of it now. Besides, you seem like a proper Stewart to me.”

Q can’t help but smile at a welcome like that. “How so?”

“We’re brilliant and good at spotting opportunities,” he says with a wink, making Bond bark out a laugh.

“That’s Quain to a T,” Bond affirms.

Q can only roll his eyes, sip his water, and try not to blush.

Gordon approaches them. “I think just about everyone’s here, and I’ve got Quain’s pictures loaded for the presentation. You lads ready?”

All three of them straighten up.

“I’ll do most of the talking — believe me, they’re used to that. I’ll just ask you to step in occasionally and add details, clarify things, answer questions. That sort of thing.”

They nod, and Q watches nervously as Gordon goes back to the table in the front and leans against it, holding a hand up to get everyone’s attention. The crowd quiets a bit, but doesn’t really settle down until someone in the back lets out a piercing whistle.

“Thank you, Giles,” Gordon says, making a show of rubbing his ear. “And thanks to all of you for coming on such short notice and so close to the holidays. I’ll try to keep this brief so you can get back to your families and celebrations.”

He takes a breath and looks out over the crowd. He has their attention now, and Q looks back across a sea of anxious expressions.

“We all know the rumours that Diagleon’s put in an offer on Skyfall. An offer that’s, by some views anyway, very generous. And we’ve all seen what’s happened to other villages when some large company bought up the land that had been tied up in the sporting estates. None of us want to see that happen here. So naturally, we were all delighted when we heard Creighton, here,” he nods to the distillery owner in the front row, “planned to put an offer on the estate as well. We hoped he’d save us all — deliver us a Christmas Miracle that would save the town without causing the rest of us any effort. And that was unfair of us,” Gordon announces to the crowd. “Sorry, Creighton,” he adds more softly.

“You see,” Gordon continues, “it’s too much to ask of one man or one company. Creighton has done amazing things since taking over his family’s distillery. Grown both Creagattin’s products and market share, received awards, added a few jobs that have gone to folks in the village,” Gordon nods at a few folks who are apparently recent hires. “He’s got a lot to be proud of, and we have a lot to thank him for. And he _was_ able to qualify for a loan, but unfortunately, it was nothing close to the value of Skyfall. Skyfall Estate may be smaller than some sporting estates, but it’s not actually _small_.

“But it’s okay that Creighton wasn’t our Christmas miracle. Because like I always tell you at every meeting, we have to be our _own_ miracle. Now, we’re lucky. Mr. Bond, who hasn’t lived here since he was a child, decided to take up Creighton’s invitation and come have a look before accepting Diagleon’s offer. Some of you have met him about town the last few days, as well as his friend Quain Stewart. They’ve come and seen the village, seen the estate, met with Creighton and with Albert,” he nods to the back of the room and Q turns to see Kincade standing near the coffee urn. “And Mr. Bond — James — called me today, quite out of the blue, to share some of his thoughts.”

There’s a pause, and Q starts to realize why Gordon is the unofficial leader of the village. He has a bit of a knack for theatre. Bond seems to have recognized it as well, based on his smirk.

“To begin with he doesn’t want to sell to Diagleon, and he’s going to decline their current offer.”

There’s a sigh of relief that moves through the room like a breeze.

“ _But!_ He doesn’t want to carry on as he has been. Doesn’t want to be responsible for and tie up so much land, but also isn’t quite ready to lose his foothold here, altogether.”

Gordon nods and someone switches off the front lights, and he uncovers a piece of cardboard from the projector lens. “Now, _this_ is the extent of the Skyfall Estate,” he says, tracing the outline of the estate on the map Q had created using Google Earth. “A little over ten thousand acres, all told. Too much, according to James, for a man whose life is primarily in London. So, he’s decided to split it. This section,” Gordon advances to the next slide, “is the family lodge and outbuildings, access to the loch and view up to the ridge. This he plans to keep for himself, and maybe rebuild in a few years.”

Q feels James’ thigh move closer to his, whether intentionally or not he can’t be sure. He becomes abruptly aware of the man, though, his attention pulled from Gordon’s speech to remember that he’s been on the inside of these conversations. Helped direct them and formulate the plan. And something tells Q that this part of it, especially, has something to do with him.

“These areas,” Gordon indicates some wooded areas on the next slide, “are the portions of the estate Creighton’s been collecting on for his gins. About 2000 acres. Creighton and James have reached an agreement by which these acres will be transferred so they are controlled by the Creagattin Distillery, and in exchange, James will have a stake in the business. The terms seemed to revolve around ‘lifetime supply’ and ‘private tastings’… I admit I didn’t follow it all.” Laughter ripples through the room. “But when that transfer goes through, Creighton is thinking that the loan amount he _was_ able to secure could pay for an expansion of the distillery here,” Gordon points to the map. “So we have that to look forward to.

“Which leaves this area,” Gordon states, pointing to a new slide illustrating the remainder of the estate. “A bit over six thousand acres, going from the ridge back down to the main road, and toward the village roughly to the museum. James intends to sell this. Once he has the estate split and a portion transferred to the distillery, he’s going to put this area up for sale. Now, Diagleon might not be interested in this bit since it doesn’t have the botanicals. But _someone_ will be. And if they’re buying six thousand acres, they’re going to want to make it work. Make it profitable. And we’ve seen what that looks like over in Claddich.” There’s murmuring amongst the crowd as they contemplate that. “But there’s another option, and Mr. Bond wants to give us first refusal.”

Gordon pauses again, and this time it seems a bit like nerves. He’s had his soliloquy; now it’s time to see if he can make the pitch, and if Q’s not mistaken, Gordon’s worried.

“Eigg, Assynt, Harris — and many others — have opted for community buyouts. It’s… I’m not going to lie, it’s a bit of a process, but there are laws and foundations to help us. We’d need to set up a not-for-profit foundation first, and then develop a community plan for what we want to do with the land, how we’ll set it up to benefit the village. But Mr. Bond has agreed to hold off the sale and give us time to apply for a grant from the government. If we want to. So that’s why I’ve called you together. To see if you’re up for the hard work of making our _own_ Christmas Miracle. To see if you’ll vote to have me start the paperwork to form the foundation. And to brainstorm about what we’d like to do if we had control over all that land. By law, we need ten percent of the population of the surrounding postcodes to vote for it, but really I’m not sure it’s worth trying if we can’t get half this room to agree. If _you_ all want it, I know we can convince them.”

“So that’s why I called you all in. Before you’re utterly distracted by the holidays and your families in from out-of-town, and before James and Quain head back to London, I wanted us all to have a chance to get together and see if this is doable.” He clasps his hands together for a moment in what almost looks like a prayer and then holds them wide. “Now, are there any questions?”

There’s a moment where everything is frozen in stunned silence, and then 100 hands shoot into the air.

Bond and Creighton end up joining Gordon at the front to answer questions about their portions of the estate ( _Yes, Mr. Bond will be an investor in the distillery. No, we haven’t fully determined what his role will be. Yes, although Albert’s cottage will remain on Mr. Bond’s land, the distillery will pay him to manage our lands as well, and hire him an assistant to help him with the heavy lifting. No, we’re not accepting applications quite yet._ ) However, it’s Q who stands up beside Gordon to help answer questions about the laws and regulations around forming non-profits, creating community plans, and applying for the grants. He actually takes over control of the laptop to share the online resources he’d found during their meeting at the ski lodge. Gordon knows the big picture of the process well, but when questions come up about details, Q just searches the sites he found in real-time to find at least some of the answers.

When they’ve exhausted that topic, Gordon starts asking about ideas for their community plan, and things get downright boisterous. The villagers are making suggestions so quickly Gordon can’t keep up on his paper notebook. Q opens a document and projects their list of ideas so quickly Gordon actually does a double-take when he sees it and slowly lets his paper notebook droop in his hands. “Right,” he says, setting it down and turning back to the crowd to call on the next villager for their suggestion. Q continues to type the ideas being tossed out into the room, stealing a brief glance at James. The man is leaning back against one of the tables, arms crossed casually across his chest, watching Q and smiling. It’s enough to make his fingers falter. Fortunately, the crowd is too wrapped up in their discussion to notice much.

James, however, _does_ notice, and his grin just widens.

By the time they’re done, they have more ideas than they can likely implement. A few things that are likely mutually exclusive. But it’s a good list. Ideas ranging from wind turbines to a string of hiking cabins that could draw tourists for winter and summer multi-day hikes. Additional housing and a crafting co-op. One person even suggests a herd of hearty Highland Cattle, a native breed that could make do on the moors and provide excellent beef.

Gordon is well pleased. He states “last call” as the villagers talk excitedly amongst themselves, nodding at Q as no other suggestions are forthcoming so he can save and close out the document.

“Are there any last questions, or last bits of discussion?” Gordon asks.

A hand is raised in the back, and Gordon calls, “Yeah, Giles?”

The ginger man Q remembers from the beginning of the meeting says, “Let’s say for a moment that we do this… we form a not-for-profit, we create a community plan that we can all agree to, we apply to the government… what’s to stop Diagelon from just stepping in and offering Mr. Bond more? We could put in all this work and have it come to nothing.”

“You have my word—” Bond starts as Gordon claims, “Mr. Bond’s agreed—”

“I wouldn’t worry about Diagleon.” Q’s words cut across both the other men’s, and the whole room stares at him. Moving over to lean against the table beside Bond, he says, “While this lot was scheming this afternoon,” Q gestures toward Bond, Creighton, and Gordon, “I used the ski lodge wifi to do a bit of digging. The terms of Diagleon’s previous purchases are public record, if you know where to look. They agreed to certain limits to their growth, certain community investments, and are rather behind, from what I can tell.” Q looks at Bond, who seems somewhat bemused. “Well, it seemed worthy of investigation, so I forwarded the documents I found to several regulating agencies. I’m imagining Diagleon may be rather too busy in the new year to be revising their offer on Skyfall.”

Bond barks a laugh and wraps an arm around Q’s shoulder, pulling him close and saying, “That’s my Quain,” before planting a kiss on the top of his head. Right there, in front of the entire village. And he doesn’t let go. James’ arm remains draped over his shoulder as the room responds to Q’s words with relieved laughter and cheers. Q’s not sure what to do in the face of so much… acceptance. Not sure what to do with the warm, solid press of James’ body against his side or the thumb that absently rubs his shoulder. James isn’t looking at him, but it feels as though he is shouting some sort of declaration to the room. And he finds he doesn’t mind at all. Sheepishly, trying to will his blush away, Q places his arm around James’ waist and feels James’ grip tighten, pulling him closer. He bites back a smile and looks up to see Aileen beaming at them from her seat near the front.

“Well, with that assurance that we’ll have the time we need if we decide to do this, we do actually have to decide,” Gordon says with a warm smile. “Is there any other discussion?” When the room remains quiet, he says, “Okay, then. All in favor of having me initiate the formation of a not-for-profit foundation that we can use to apply for government grants and eventually buy a portion of Skyfall Estate, please raise your hand.”

The room is asea with raised hands.

Gordon’s eyes widen as he counts. Q estimates at least two hundred in favor.

“And opposed?” Gordon asks.

Not a single hand is raised.

“It _is_ a Christmas Miracle,” Gordon laughs as the villagers look around at each other, grinning. “I may even actually call the foundation the Christmas Miracle Trust, just to mark the fact that for one _brief_ moment, we all agreed on something.”

The villagers are giddy and antsy now that the decision has been made. “We need some Christmas Miracle pudding!” someone calls from the back.

“Okay,” Gordon agrees. “I think we’re done for the night. Meeting adjourned. Have a wonderful evening, everyone. And Merry Christmas!”

“Mince pies at the Inn,” Charles calls out to the room.

Immediately chairs are scraping against the floor as everyone rises to head out, abuzz with hope for the future, smiling and waving goodbye to Gordon and Creighton and even James and Q.

And James’ arm is _still_ draped over Q’s shoulder. It feels almost possessive, and Q leans into him and is rewarded with a squeeze on his shoulder.

“I think this calls for a celebration,” Gordon says. “You lads up for it?”

They had eaten and sipped at whisky most of the meeting at the ski lodge as they schemed and researched. Q can’t imagine having a meal again so soon, but it does feel like they’ve accomplished something that merits an observance. “Maybe one drink?” Q suggests, tilting his head so he can see James’ response.

“Absolutely,” James responds, waving Kincade over.

“Aren’t you lads full of surprises?” he says as he approaches, shaking Gordon’s hand and then James’ and Q’s. “And an assistant?” Kincade continues, turning to shake Creighton’s hand. Elspeth has slipped in next to him, and Creighton has an arm around her.

“If you don’t mind mentoring someone,” Creighton insists. “I just figured, it’s a lot of land, and different parts will need different attention. If you’d rather not—”

“No, I think I can slip into a management role,” he says with a wink. “Maybe implement a bit more of my plan now that I’ll have another back sharing the burden.”

“That’s just what we were hoping,” James says. “Join us for a drink? Creighton’s buying.”

Creighton groans. “I’m going to regret that part of your terms, aren’t I?”

“If I have any say in it,” James agrees.

The six of them head over to the inn, walking the darkened promenade from the east side of the village to the west. Stars glitter overhead and their breath forms a mist that plays at Q’s vision. Boats bob on the loch to their right, the dark expanse reflecting buoy lights. He’s distracted by the fact that James’ arm is _still_ wrapped around his shoulder, when he spots something else reflected in the loch. Something _green_ that’s also in the clear night sky _._ No… _blue!_

“What is that?” Q asks, stopping in his tracks, Bond still pressed against his side.

Gordon looks up. “Oh, that's the northern lights. Something about protons and the magnetic field… It's quite technical. Nice though, isn’t it?”

“I know _what_ it is, I just…” he trails off as the curtains of color shift from green to blue to red and back.

“You’ve never seen the aurora borealis?” James asks quietly.

Q shakes his head. “I’ve only read about it. I never realized it would feel so—” He looks into James’ face to see the blue-green of the aurora reflected in his eyes. _Magical_. He doesn’t say it, but something in James’ expression indicates he knows nonetheless.

They stand and watch for a moment. Long enough for Q to wrap an arm around James in return, feel his answering squeeze, and wish desperately that they were alone so he could turn in James’ arms and kiss him under the shimmering sky. Before that desire can become too intense, the curtains of light drift off to the north and they resume their walk to the now crowded inn. Fortunately, Charles has thought to reserve them a table in the window. Q and James sit across from Creighton and Elspeth, with Kincade and Gordon at either end. Charles brings them glasses and mince pies and Aileen brings a plate of cheese so they aren’t consuming _only_ alcohol and sugar. And James is teasing that he wants to revise the terms of their agreement to include unlimited black bun as well, making Elspeth laugh and rest her head on Creighton’s shoulder. Gordon is trying to sort out how to make every single suggestion made by the villagers fit within the confines of the property, fitting them together like a puzzle. Kincade shares his ideas for adding more native plants, mentioning nurseries to the east they could purchase the stock from.

Q barely hears any of it, so aware is he of the warm press of James’ thigh against his. The weight of James’ hand against his shoulder, James’ thumb occasionally tracing a circle through his jumper, promising… he’s not exactly sure what, but it makes him impatient. Despite this easy camaraderie and acceptance and the toasts to not just Q’s cleverness but also his _kindness_ being exactly what he’s wanted much of his life. He doesn’t know how long he’s wanted James. Perhaps as early as their first meeting in the National Gallery, if he’s honest with himself. And as much as he’s savoring the open display of affection from James in public, his mind keeps drifting to their room upstairs.

When Creighton starts refilling their glasses, Q puts a hand over his to indicate he’s done. James, too, says they’d best call it a night, bids everyone good evening. The dining room is still raucous with celebration, and it seems that it will remain so for hours, but as they leave the noise behind and start to climb the stairs, James takes his hand, and everything that isn’t the warm, dry touch of James’ fingers on his skin fades from Q’s awareness.


	9. The Christmas Wish(es)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which... well, you know...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry that this one took so long. Work and RL got me busy, and then I decided to reread the whole story and take notes on all the things I wanted to reference/wrap up. So I'm nearly a week of my usual schedule, Many thanks to all the readers who made comments or otherwise shared what they'd like to see. Hopefully, I've worked in everyone's wishes (Christine, thanks for the inspiration on the ending).
> 
> And as ever, this story wouldn't be nearly as good without the wonderful input of @midrashic and @faeriechild. I adore them both.
> 
> Thanks to MI6 Cafe for the excellent challenges that always keep me inspired, and the slack chatters who keep me motivated. You all make fandom so lovely.
> 
> I made a moodboard with some of the picspiration I used... 
> 
> And now, because this isn't ACTUALLY a Hallmark film and so we aren't ending the story with their first kiss, here's what comes next.

No sooner are they through the door of their room than Bond has Q pinned against it and is snogging him senseless. Literally. Q doesn’t realize he hasn’t breathed in too long until Bond ends the kiss and he actually feels _dizzy_ , thumping his head back against the door as James sighs against his lips.

“God, I’ve wanted to do that all day… since you kissed me outside the museum,” James whispers, pressing their lips together again, gently this time, sweetly almost, though Q can still barely breathe or think from the last kiss. “Since before that, really. As important as that meeting was, I thought it might _never_ end.” James brushes his lips along Q’s jaw. “But now I even have an excuse. It’s tradition, Q. We can’t ignore tradition.”

“What?” Q asks. Because even if he weren’t completely muddled by that kiss, he’s pretty sure snogging your Quartermaster isn’t a tradition anywhere.

Bond smirks and looks up.

Q follows his gaze and… mistletoe.

“Aileen is a meddling meddler who meddles.”

James laughs into the kiss, and Q’s mild indignation is momentarily forgotten. _Christ_ , kissing James is lovely. Even if… even if this _can’t_ last and it’s just some time-out-of-time experience that only works in some remote highland village with a community Christmas tree that sparkles and _sky_ that sparkles. Even if it lives completely outside of their real lives in the grit of London and spy-work, he no longer cares. He just _wants_ James so bloody much. _This_ James. Whom he knows can kill ruthlessly when Crown and Country demand it, but who is also excited about being part of a local business. Who wants to maintain some ties to a quaint village, despite being able to turn heads in a dinner jacket at the Savoy.

“I may have asked her if she had extra,” James whispers into his jaw.

“What?” Q gasps.

“Mistletoe,” James chuckles, no doubt amused that Q _cannot_ hold a thought in his head when Bond is… is…

“You asked for mistletoe in our room?” Q confirms, arching his neck to give James space to _oh god_ … he didn’t know James’ lips on the spot just below his ear would make his knees do that.

“Well, it was this morning when we dropped our purchases off, before you started to catch on a bit. Before you _kissed_ me in the museum car park. I wasn’t having much luck making you understand, before that. You are extremely stubborn.”

“ _I’m_ extremely stubborn?”

“So I enlisted some help. Aileen said she’d be happy to hang some mistletoe when she made up the room. She likes us.”

Q huffs a laugh that turns into a moan as James sucks on that spot under his ear again.

“The great James Bond. Reduced to using a poisonous parasite. You seemed completely shocked by it at the front door when we left for the bakery this morning.”

“I was sure _then_ that it was only going to make things between us worse… my usual brash ways were clearly getting me nowhere and you were so insistent that I couldn’t be attracted to you. I was about to make some excuse, but then you turned to me and… you looked hopeful. And it gave _me_ reason to feel the same.” James lowers his mouth to Q’s again and it’s nothing at all like that awkward peck this morning.

Wrapping his arms around James’ neck, Q gives just as good as he gets, delighted as James makes that desperate sound in the back of his throat again — the one from this afternoon. Q could get used to that sound. He really could. James slides an arm behind Q’s back and pulls him close. Close enough that Q can feel that they’re _both_ hard, and this time, he doesn’t doubt for a moment why.

“Come to bed, Q,” James whispers into his cheek.

“God, you said that the first night… do you remember? I was sure you were mocking me.” James isn’t mocking him now, though. He’s sure of that.

“I wasn’t,” James clarifies, nuzzling his cheek, “but a night on the chaise was just what I needed to get my attitude in check. Just so we’re clear, though, if we _do_ share a bed tonight, I have no intention of wearing the fleece pants.”

Q huffs a laugh and kisses James in earnest.

Q’s not sure how they make it over to the bed. They’ve managed to peel off jumpers and remove shoes between kisses — Q is grateful that the fire is roaring and the room is lovely and warm. James tugs down the covers from the bed and slips his thumbs under the waist of Q’s turtleneck, tickling the bare skin underneath, and suddenly everything feels very real.

He must freeze a bit, because James pauses.

“Q?”

“Sorry, I just still can’t quite believe this is happening.”

James kisses him gently, rubbing Q’s waist, but not sliding his hands up.

“Q… Quain… actually, what _do_ you want me to call you?” James asks, tilting his head.

Q bites his lips. “You know, I’m growing rather fond of Quain… especially when _you_ say it. Especially _here_. It just feels right. God, Moneypenny will be insufferable if she finds out.”

“Quain,” James murmurs through a huff of a laugh, cupping Q’s face with one hand and kissing him gently. “Nothing needs to happen tonight if you don’t want it to. I’m happy to take you back to London and wine and dine you until you believe it. Believe this. Believe in your own appeal. Because the truth is I’ve wanted you for months.”

“ _What?_ ” Q pulls back enough that they can look at each other.

James is tracing Q’s jaw with his finger. “You’re right,” he says softly, searching Q’s face. “It’s been longer than that. Maybe… About a month into my hiatus in the Bahamas, I started missing you. It took me slowing down enough to actually be able to _think_ to understand why. When I came back, though, I could see it would take time to undo the damage I’d wrought.”

Q shakes his head. “Our first missions went fine.”

“Yes,” Bond agrees. “You’re too much of a professional to let our working relationship be impacted, but all of the warmth was gone. You held me at arm’s length, and it made me watch you all the more carefully.”

That sounds… dangerous. To be on the receiving end of Bond’s focus. Though he’s enjoying it at the moment. “And?” he asks.

“And,” James kisses his jaw, “you are beautiful.” He kisses it again. “Lithe.” And again.

Q gasps because he recognizes this list and James’ kisses are wonderfully distracting.

“Incredibly smart,” James continues, kissing his way to Q’s neck. “Possibly the most brilliant person I’ve ever known. And bossy. You’re never afraid to argue with me or tell me when I’m being an arse, which I normally find off-putting, but on you, it’s somehow charming.”

“You like the challenge,” Q asserts breathlessly, craning his neck to grant James more access.

“It appears I do,” James agrees. “I depend on you to continue to challenge me for as long as you can stand it. In all ways.”

Q snorts a laugh.

“But as appealing as all that is — and I assure you, it’s very, _very_ appealing — the fact that you’re also the most _dangerous_ man I know puts it right over the top. I admit I’m quite smitten.”

Q snorts. “I’m not the most dangerous man you know,” he protests.

“Perhaps not in a hand-to-hand fight, but it every other way, you definitely are. I daresay Diagleon LLC would agree. Quite enticing.”

“James?”

“Yes, love?”

“Come to bed.”

There are no words for a while. James lays Q back onto the bed. Hovers over him. Peels back each layer of Q’s clothing like he’s unwrapping a present. And when he finally has Q naked, James kneels between his legs, looks him up and down, his gaze resting on Q’s long, hard cock, and murmurs, “It _is_ Christmas.”

“Oh my god, just… come _here_ James!”

Q isn’t nearly so careful undressing James. He’s not surprised by his own urgency. Nor James’, now that he’s able to interpret the heat in those ice-blue eyes. He _is_ surprised by the _fun_ they’re having, their usual banter making an appearance as they navigate how their bodies feel against each other, who left the bottle of lube so _very_ far away, and who is ticklish where (spoiler, Q isn’t ticklish anywhere).

Things get more serious, though, as James reaches a slick finger to Q’s entrance, opening him carefully, almost gently, and then finally — _finally —_ lining himself up and pushing in. James freezes for a moment to give them a chance to adjust, perhaps, and breathe, but also just _feel_. Q runs his fingers up and down James’ arms as James holds himself over Q, braced on his hands.

Q can’t quite interpret James’ expression, but there’s something achingly earnest in it.

“I’m fine. You can—” All his breath rushes out as James pushes in.

The faint sob he hears _must_ come from James, though it’s soft enough Q nearly doesn’t hear it. He wraps his arms around James’ shoulders, pulling him closer as he whispers, “ I’ve got you… I’ve got you.”

They move together in unison, more like familiar lovers than two people discovering each other for the first time. Shared breath and soft touches give way to more urgent thrusts and finally groans of pleasure as the topple over the edge of ecstasy together.

What surprises Q the most, though — in the aftermath as he lies with his ear against James’ chest, listening to his heart beat a steady rhythm — is how _normal_ it feels. Like he hasn’t been holding himself back from this, afraid of being another notch in James’ belt for ages. Like he didn’t refuse to believe that James could honestly find him appealing as recently as _this morning_.

This new normal is already so grounded in his being that he can barely imagine those thoughts. No. It feels like he’s always known the taste of James’ skin and the feel of his fingers absently tracing lines on Q’s arm and side and flank as they recover. It’s comfortable and a bit possessive.

Q likes it.

“Are you cold?” James asks softly as gooseflesh rises on Q’s arm in the wake of his fingers.

“Not really,” Q answers, a shiver belying his answer.

James snorts a soft laugh. “I could go stoke the fire.”

“But then you’d stop doing this,” Q observes, liking the way James’ voice sounds when reverberating through his chest.

“I could promise to come back,” James counters.

“Do you?”

James’ fingers freeze, and after a brief hug, he untangles them enough that they can lie on their sides facing each other, the covers pulled up to their waists. Q puts a hand under his cheek and watches James as he reaches up to push some of Q’s fringe back.

“Yes,” James says simply.

It sounds like an answer to a bigger question. It sounds like a promise that a spy and assassin probably has no business making. Q clings to it anyway.

“You asked me earlier what I want,” James starts. “Would you like to hear it?”

Q bites his lip and nods.

“If I could arrange the world as I’d like — receive a Christmas wish, so to speak,” James strokes the curls at Q’s temple. “To start with, I’d stay in this room with you through New Year’s. I’d—”

Q’s eyes widen. “The Gala… isn’t the Gala tomorrow night? Or was it tonight?” He’s rather lost track of time.

James smiles softly. “It’s tomorrow. And I’ve already offered the tickets to Eve, but I can call her back if you have a dinner jacket handy and want to make a run for it in the morning and go with me.”

“I… no,” Q answers. “I have no great desire to get dressed up when _this_ is an option.”

James tilts his head, observing Q. “But you’d consider getting dressed up if I wanted to take you,” James deduces. “That _is_ an interesting development.” He looks quite pleased.

“Bloody fucking spies,” Q mutters as he bites back a smile, because honestly, his days of having secrets from James are probably long gone, but he’s not sure he minds.

“Yes we are,” James affirms, tracing a finger suggestively down to Q’s hip, making him laugh. “And damned good, I’d say,” he finishes, cupping Q’s arse.

“Terrible,” Q moans through a laugh. “How is it possible for your lines to get worse _after_ you’ve bedded me?” James gives him a charming grin. He looks younger, somehow. Happy. “Now go on. Do be serious. You were telling all your most secret Christmas wishes. Here through New Year’s — I don’t think we’ll need to invoke Father Christmas for that. What else?”

James tucks Q’s fringe back again, his smile easing to something more wistful. “Well, then we’d go back to London, and back to work. And you’d let me take you out on the town and we’d see how this works when we’re in the midst of our normal, stressful lives.”

“And if it does?” Q asks, biting at his lip and drawing first James’ gaze and then his lips.

“If it does,” he says after taking a kiss, “then I’d wish for you to keep me alive for another few years as we serve Queen and Country, and help me design the rebuild of the Lodge so it has all the modern amenities housed in all the charm my forebears appreciated.” James pauses, looking tentative. “I know you said you didn’t _need_ a… what was it? — ‘romantic old lodge with secret passages on a picturesque moor on the edge of a loch.’” Q bites his lip again because he _did_ say that, didn’t he? “But I hope you wouldn’t mind having one anyway.”

Q freezes. “Are you serious?”

“I’m sure I’m getting ahead of myself,” James says almost nervously. “I have a truly dreadful track record for these things, Quain. You should be under no misconceptions about that. Every person I’ve ever _really_ cared about has died or betrayed me or both. Most people who think they’ve fallen for me are enamoured of my front. The dangerous 007. Even if they aren’t aware of my profession, that’s still who they see. The man without a past. Without roots.”

James absently toys with Q’s hand, lying on the sheet between them. He watches their tangled fingers as he continues. “It’s been easy to be that man, as long as I kept moving. Kept taking the most dangerous missions in the most glamorous settings. And you know that man, too. You know how ruthless and dangerous and selfish he can be. But… but that’s not _all_ you see of me.”

“No, it’s not,” Q confirms, thinking of all he’s learned on this trip. He can’t think of the posh 007 ordering caviar without also seeing the man who bought all the black bun in the local bakery just days before Christmas. And he can’t help smiling at both.

“And I see more of you than the brilliant Quartermaster who creates the most elegant tech... that not only makes my job easier and safer, but allows me to do _more_ than I ever could on my own. As much as I hated to admit it at first,” he adds with a smirk. “And you’re obviously self-sufficient. Two cats and a mortgage and a promising career. You don’t _need_ anything from me, but I still find…” He plays with Q’s fingers. “I still find that if I have something to share, I’d like to share it with you.”

James looks back up at Q’s face, hope mingled with a sort of world-weary wariness Q wants to erase from his expression. He tries, even — reaching a hand up to James’ face and smoothing the lines in his brow.

“Okay,” he says.

“Okay? To which part?”

Q shrugs. “All of it. We’ll take it in steps, of course. I’ll have to vet you with Matilda and Merlin, and they’ll be a bit pissy at first because I’ve been gone, but I’m sure you’ll work it out.”

James’ expression clears to joy and humor. “Matilda and Merlin? Long-haired or short-haired? I need an estimate of how much my dry cleaning is going up.”

“Short. And the fur isn’t what you need to worry about.”

James winces. “All right. When we return to London I’ll submit myself to feline vetting. It can’t be worse than psych. Is there anyone else whose approval I need to win?”

Q huffs a laugh. “No. I’m mostly a man without a past, too.”

“Mostly?”

“A story for another time,” Q insists. “However, I will tell you a secret about me now that only a handful of people know. One that will give you an opportunity to prove what you said about sharing.”

“And what’s that?”

“Well, you’ve probably noticed that I have a fairly high metabolism.”

“Hmmm. Lithe,” James agrees, placing his hand on Q’s hip and caressing the jutting bone with his thumb.

“Yes, well… after sex, I’m _famished_. Always. It doesn’t matter what else I’ve eaten before, if I—”

And as if on cue, Q’s stomach growls loudly enough that James raises an eyebrow.

“So you see…”

“You require a post-coital snack?” James asks.

“Precisely. And, well, it does sound like the party's still going on downstairs, so I guess I _could_ put on some clothes and see if I can find Ail—”

“Oh, no. I don’t think I want anyone other than _me_ seeing your ‘just fucked’ hair,” James says, combing Q’s fringe back in a way that is no doubt making Q’s unruly hair worse. “If anyone heads downstairs for a snack, it will be me.”

“Hmmm. But that would necessitate _you_ donning clothes,” Q observes. “I’m not sure I can support that either.” Q runs his fingers over James’ chest and down his abs.

“We do seem to be at an impasse,” James remarks, clearly enjoying the feel of Q’s fingers. “What would you say to a picnic in bed consisting of whisky and black bun? It just so happens I have a sizable supply of both.”

“I was hoping you’d say that,” Q says, leaning forward to kiss James. “I couldn’t be sure, of course. Sharing your family estate is one thing. Sharing your hoard of black bun—”

James cuts that thought off with another kiss. Long enough and deep enough that Q momentarily forgets his hunger for _food_. “I think,” James says, rolling Q onto his stomach so he can kiss his way down Q’s spine, “that I’ll bring you two slices. Want to make sure you can keep your strength up.” He kisses the small of Q’s back and then runs a possessive hand over the swell of his arse before getting up to walk across the room in his naked glory to retrieve the pastry and liquor.

Q turns on his side and props his head up on his hand, openly admiring Bond’s nude form, because he _can_. James digs the bag of black bun and bottle of whisky from his case, grabs a towel to use as a picnic blanket, and turns, freezing when he sees the grin on Q’s face.

“What?” he asks, his expression turning a bit mischievous.

“Hmmm. It _is_ Christmas!” Q announces.

James walks back to the bed, eyes sparkling. He sets the picnic items on the side table and leans over to kiss Q, whispering, “God bless us, every one!”

The end


End file.
